


Naked in Shoot

by LeeMac



Series: [ ] In Shoot [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Child Death, F/F, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, In Death series AU, Light BDSM, Mild Kink, Naked in Death AU, Past Sexual Abuse, Root is a bazillionaire, Root is a bossy boss, Serial Killer, Shaw is a detective, Shaw kinda likes it, Smut, Spanking, Strap-Ons, family trauma, more sex than the original, some gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 113,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23600278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeeMac/pseuds/LeeMac
Summary: Sameen Shaw is a Detective Lieutenant working for the police in New York, fifty years in the future. Root is a filthy rich tech bazillionaire with A Past. Shaw is investigating a gory series of murders committed with antique projectile guns. Root is a prime suspect.Based on the novelNaked in Deathby J.D. Robb (Nora Roberts), with Team Machine as the protagonists.All due respect and homage to Nora Roberts, for her magnificent multiple series of reading-crack, may her writing arm never falter.
Relationships: Root/Sameen Shaw
Series: [ ] In Shoot [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2004292
Comments: 214
Kudos: 316





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This adheres pretty closely to the novel's plot and structure, but scenes are rewritten to incorporate our protagonists' personalities and backstories, which causes some divergence from the original as the story progresses. The substance of most scenes is the same. Also, Shaw and Root's backstories are not the same as they are in canon, to suit this world - a little of this and a little of that, basically.
> 
> Various characters from Team Machine will pop up here and there, except for John. He won't be in this particular story, sorry. (Not till the next one, if I can gear up for that.) There's no Samaritan in this world, so the Decima team and other baddies have been put to better use.
> 
> I've updated some of the technology stuff from the original, although of course it'll still be completely anachronistic 60 years in the future. A bit less anachronistic for us, I hope. 
> 
> I also trimmed some of the more gratuitous descriptions Robb used to make this first work in the In Death series more "hard-boiled". Some stuff that was OK to publish 25 years ago is stuff I wouldn't want to reproduce now.
> 
> Given the plot in the original book, there are still depictions of assault, violent death, negative perceptions of sex workers, and generational family trauma. There are mentions of sexual assault and child abuse, but they are not depicted in detail. The story is not constant violence and trauma, but there is more than one confronting scene if you're sensitive to any of those themes. 
> 
> There are Shoot-typical levels of sexytimes - i.e. somewhat more of it and more (mildly) _kinky_ sex as the story progresses, so you have been warned. Not in the first chapter, though.
> 
> Note that (kinky and non-) actual smut will be well away from any depictions of abuse. Everything that happens between our major protagonists and in the present day - aside from the (not-at-all-smut) actual crimes - is _consensual_.
> 
> And please, if you like, a wee kudos never goes astray. And I love appreciative comments - let me know what you enjoyed!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Lieutenant Sameen Shaw is assigned to a politically-sensitive violent homicide case.

She woke in the dark. The first hint of dawn crept through the slats on the window shades, throwing shadowy bars over the bed. It felt, for an instant, like waking in a cage. For a few seconds she simply lay there, shuddering, imprisoned in the dream residue, waiting until it faded. After ten years on the force, Sameen Shaw still had dreams. 

She had killed a man just six hours before. It wasn’t the first time she’d exercised maximum force or had bad dreams afterward. With every action, there is a reaction, and Shaw had no problem with that. But this time there had been a child, a child she’d only just been too late to save. It was the sound of her cries that had haunted Shaw’s dream that night.

Shaw swiped the sweat from her face, trying to push the memory aside. _All that blood from so small a body._ But she couldn’t dwell on it: she needed to banish the haunting images and get her focus back, asap. 

Standard departmental procedure meant that she would spend the morning in Testing. Any officer who discharged a weapon or otherwise caused termination of life was required to undergo psychiatric clearance before resuming duty. Shaw ordinarily considered the tests a mild pain in the ass. Today would be more difficult. She would beat them, though, as she’d beaten them before.

She arose, the lights coming on low, and headed into the bath. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and winced. Her eyes were swollen, with dark circles under them from lack of sleep, and her skin tone was sallow and washed out. At least she wasn’t in front of the testers at that moment. With a slight shake of her head, she stripped out of her tank and sleep pants, pulled off her hair tie, and stepped into the shower.

“Shower on, forty-two degrees, full force,” she said, and tilted her head up so the shower spray hit her full in the face. She leaned forward and propped her hands against the smooth wall, the water plastering her long hair against her shoulders and back. With her eyes still closed, she finally allowed the events of the night before replay in her mind, hoping that they would be purged when she was done. 

She wasn’t due in Testing until nine; that gave her three hours to settle and let the dreams fade away. She couldn’t allow any appearance of doubt or regret seep through during the tests. At the very least, it would mean another, more intense round with the machines and the eagle-eyed technicians who ran them. At worst, her badge could be yanked until she got her head shrunk and certified as being back in the game. Shaw did not intend to be off the streets longer than twenty-four hours.

She pulled on a dark blue robe and walked into the kitchen to order from the AutoChef: coffee, light, whole milk; toast, dark and crisp. Through her window she could hear the heavy hum of air traffic carrying the early commuters to their offices and the late ones home. She’d chosen the apartment years before because it was close enough to the precinct and overlooked a constant busy flow of traffic and people. The noisy bustle suited her perfectly; observing people was not a mere hobby to Shaw. And the rent on the place was cheap.

She brought the _Times_ up on her link and scanned the headlines while the faux caffeine boosted her system. The AutoChef had burned her toast again, but she ate it anyway, with a mental note that it was beyond time to get the unit replaced. She was rolling her eyes over an article on a mass recall of droid cocker spaniels when the link blipped with an incoming from the precinct. Shaw flipped over to accept it and her commanding officer appeared on the display.

“Commander.”

“Lieutenant.” He gave her a brisk nod. “Incident at 27 West Broadway, eighteenth floor. You’re primary.”

Shaw pursed her lips slightly. “I’m on Testing. Subject terminated at 2235.”

“That’s the reason we’re talking now—I’m overriding Testing,” he said neutrally. “It's Code Five, lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

He ended the call as she pushed back from the screen. Code Five meant she would report directly to Commander Elias, and there would be no unsealed interdepartmental reports and no cooperation with the press. This investigation would be in complete information lockdown.

* * *

Broadway was noisy and crowded, as always. Street, pedestrian, and sky traffic were miserable, completely choked with bodies and vehicles. She navigated carefully around the street vendors and their prey, the clueless tourists that spent too much time gawping at the sights to notice they were wandering dangerously close to a police vehicle’s front grille.

Shaw double-parked and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She looked up the building, fifty floors of gleaming metal that rose straight into the sky. A couple of substance-impaired men slouching near the entrance gave her the eye, but looked away again when they encountered her dead-eyed stare straight back. Since this five-block area of Broadway was affectionately termed Whore’s Walk, she wasn’t surprised by the pleasant welcome committee. She walked up the ramp to the building and flashed her badge for the uniform guarding the entrance.

“Lieutenant Shaw.”

“Yes, sir. The scene’s on the eighteenth floor—apartment 1803.” He turned to secure the door so he could escort her up.

Shaw raised her hand for him to wait. “Have you been in the apartment?”

“No, sir. I was just called in to secure the premises and detain for interview anyone entering or exiting the building.”

“Stay at your post. I’ll go on up,” she said. “These elevators go to all floors?”

“Yes, sir,” he confirmed.

Shaw nodded, went over to the elevator bank, and rode up to the eighteenth. She stepped out into a narrow corridor, the elevator door closing silently behind her. She checked her link to make sure the micro camera on her coat was recording her entry to the scene. A prominent array of security cameras in the corridor also observed her progress as she walked down to 1803. Ignoring the handplate by the door, she announced herself, holding her badge up to eye level for the peep cam until the door opened. As she waited, she made sure the microrecorder on her collar was taking in the scene.

The door opened. “Shaw.”

“Finch.” She gave him a nod, satisfied at seeing a familiar face. Harold Finch was a former partner who’d traded the street for a desk and a top level position in the Electronics Detection Division. “So they’re sending computer fiddlers these days.”

“They wanted senior personnel with a certain degree of competence.” His small mouth assumed a wry smile, but his eyes remained sober. He was a narrow-featured man of barely-average height, with a slightly receding hairline of dark brushlike hair and a fussy demeanour. His meticulously-barbered sideburns and tailored dark tweed suit gave a little distinction to his otherwise geekish look. “You seem tired, lieutenant.”

“Rough night.”

“So I heard.” He offered her some candied chocolate from the bag he habitually carried, covertly studying her as she looked around the room, assessing whether she was up to what was waiting in the bedroom beyond.

She was young for her rank, barely thirty, with large, almost black eyes that had seen everything. And didn't like it much. Her sable hair was kept in a sedate ponytail, for convenience rather than style. It suited her face, with its prominent cheekbones, long, finely-shaped nose, full well-defined mouth, and the golden-brown complexion of her Iranian heritage.

She was short, with a tendency to look thin, but Finch knew there were solid, well-trained muscles beneath her pea coat. More importantly, in his opinion, she had a strong sense of justice, a brain, and unassailable integrity.

“This one’s going to be touchy, Shaw.”

“I managed to deduce that part. Code Five is pretty telling. Who’s the victim?”

“Claire Hallen, granddaughter of Senator Hallen.”

Neither meant anything to her. “Politics isn’t my forte, Finch.”

“Old school, extreme right, old money, Virginia. The granddaughter took a sharp left a few years back, moved to New York, and became a licensed companion.”

“A sex worker. Is that so touchy?” Shaw walked purposefully around the living room, compiling a mental inventory. It was furnished with the latest decor and furnishings, steel, glass, slick fabrics, glossy paint, restless imagery with brief flashes of erotica flickering through the mood screens. “Not a surprise here at all, given her choice of real estate. And decor.”

“Politics makes it touchy. Victim was twenty-four, white female. Found deceased in her bed.”

Shaw only lifted a brow. “Seems like a crap deal, buying it in the workplace. How’d she die?”

“That’s the next problem. I want you to see for yourself. Someone felt the need to arrange a very distasteful scene.”

As they crossed to the bedroom, each took out a slim container and sprayed their hands front and back to seal in oils, fingerprints and DNA. At the doorway, Shaw sprayed the bottom of her boots to coat them so that she would pick up no fibers, stray hairs, or skin. 

Shaw was already wary. Under normal circumstances there would have been at least two other investigators on a homicide scene, scanning the place in full 3D, audio and video. Forensics would already have been waiting with their usual snarly impatience to sweep the scene. The fact that only Finch had been assigned with her reinforced the message the commander had relayed about the lockdown on this crime.

“A lot of security cameras in the lobby, elevator, and hallways,” Shaw commented. “Conspicuously placed, too.”

“Someone wanted to show they were watching. I’ve already tagged the feeds.” Finch opened the bedroom door and let her enter first.

It wasn’t pretty. Death rarely was. Nor was it a peaceful, spiritual event, in Shaw’s experience. It was simply the end. Mostly messy, almost always arbitrary, uncaring about “good” versus “bad”.

But this particular death was able to shock, set as it was on a stage that seemed designed to be provocative.

The bed was huge, covered with luxurious satiny linen. Small, soft-focused spotlights were trained on its center, where the naked woman was cupped in the gentle dip of the floating mattress. The mattress undulated gracefully to the rhythm of music streaming through the sound system, the victim’s lifeless body still moving in grotesque parody of a scene she would have choreographed in life.

She was beautiful, a cameo face with a generous fall of flaming red hair, green eyes that stared sightlessly at the mirrored ceiling, long, milk-white limbs that called to mind visions of Swan Lake as the motion of the bed gently rocked them. They weren’t artistically arranged now, but spread with deliberation so that the dead woman was fully exposed, forming a final, precise X in the dead center of the bed.

There was a hole in her forehead, one in her chest, and another horribly gaping between the thighs. Blood had splattered on the glossy sheets and down to the floor. There were sprays of it on the glossy walls, like a gruesome version of the antique Pollack that Shaw had seen at MOMA once. 

So much blood was a rare thing on crime scenes in the present day, and she had seen too much of it the night before to be as unaffected by the scene as she usually would. She had to swallow once, hard, and force herself to suppress the image of the small, bloodied body that appeared in her mind’s eye.

“You got the scene on record?”

“Yes.”

“Then turn that goddamn thing off.” Her shoulders relaxed a little once Finch located the controls and halted the music and the bed. 

“These wounds,” Shaw muttered, focused now, stepping closer to examine them. “Too damaging for a knife. Too messy for a laser.” A flash came to her—scenes from training vids, old movies. “Christ, Finch, these look like bullet wounds.”

Finch reached into his pocket and drew out a sealed bag. “Whoever did it left a souvenir.” He passed the bag to Shaw. “An antique like this has to go for eight, ten thousand for a legal collection, twice that on the black market.”

Fascinated, Shaw turned the sealed revolver over in her hand. “It’s heavy,” she said half to herself. “Bulky.”

“.38 caliber,” he told her. “First one I’ve seen outside of a museum. This one’s a Smith & Wesson, Model 10, blue steel.” He looked at it with a tinge of bemusement. “A classic piece, used to be standard police issue up until the latter part of the twentieth. They stopped making them in about '27, '28, when the gun ban was passed.”

“You’re the history nerd.” Which explained why he was with her. “Looks new. Somebody took good care of this.” She sniffed at the top of the bag and caught the scent of oil and burnt material. “Steel fired into flesh,” she commented as she passed the bag back to Finch. “Ugly way to die, and the first I’ve seen in my time with the department.”

“Second for me. About fifteen years ago, Lower East Side, party got out of hand. Guy shot five people with a .22 before he realized it wasn’t a toy. Terrible mess.”

“Fun and games,” Shaw muttered. “We’ll check the collectors and see how many we can locate who own one like this. Somebody might have reported a robbery.”

“Perhaps,” said Finch, dubiousness shading his tone.

“Yeah, probably not, the black market is a more likely source.” Shaw glanced back at the body. “If she’s been in the business for a few years, she’d have records of her clients.” She pursed her lips. “With Code Five, I’ll have to do the door-to-door myself. Not your typical ‘crime of passion’ bullshit—whoever did it set it up for effect. The antique weapon, the wounds themselves, almost ruler straight down the body, the lights, the pose. Who called it in, Finch?” 

“The killer.” He waited until her eyes came back to him. “From right here. Called the nearest station direct, not Emergency. See how the bedside link is aimed at her face? That’s what came in. Video, no audio.”

“Showy.” Shaw let out a breath. “A clever asshole. Arrogant, cocky. The killer had sex with her first. I’ll bet my badge on it. Then got up and did it.” She lifted her arm, aiming, lowering it as she counted off, “One, two, three.”

“That’s cold,” murmured Finch.

“The killer is cold. The sheets are smoothed down after. See how neat they are? The perp arranges her so nobody can have any doubt that they’re sending a message. Anti-whore sentiment maybe, there are still some that hate the profession. It’s done carefully, she’s perfectly aligned. Center of the bed, arms and legs equally apart. Bed stays on because it’s part of the show. The gun—an antique piece, expensive—is left here because the flatfoot cops need to know right away it’s not an ordinary crime. Big ego here. The perpetrator doesn’t want to waste time letting the body be discovered eventually. They want it now. That instant gratification.”

“She advertised for all genders,” Finch commented, and Shaw’s eyebrows drew together as she considered.

“Hard to believe a woman or fem-leaning person created this scene, with her beauty on display but degraded, it seems like. But all the options are on the table. Let’s see what we can find. Have you gone into her link yet?”

“No. It’s your case. I’m only authorized to assist.”

“Makes it simpler if they need a scapegoat, I guess,” she commented cynically.

“I can't disagree as to the possibility, Shaw,” Finch replied, with a ruefully sympathetic twitch of his mouth.

“See if you can access her client files.” Shrugging, Shaw went to the dresser and began to carefully search drawers.

Expensive taste, she noticed. There were several items of real silk, the kind no simulation could match. The bottle of scent on the dresser was exclusive, and smelled, after a quick sniff, expensively sexy. The contents of the drawers were meticulously ordered, lingerie folded precisely, sweaters arranged according to color and material. The closet was the same—expansive, particular, orderly.

“Kept good records,” Finch called out. “It’s all here. Her client list, appointments—including her monthly health exam and her weekly trip to the beauty salon. She used the Trident Clinic for the first and Paradise for the second.”

“Both top of the line, I hear.”

“My niece went to Paradise for her graduation present. It cost as much as a small vehicle. New. Ah, here we are—her personal address book.”

“Good. Copy all of it, will you, Finch?” At his low exclamation, she looked over her shoulder and observed the small gold-edged link in his hand. “What?”

“We’ve got a lot of very high-powered names in here. Politics, entertainment, a lot of money. Interesting, our victim has Root’s private contact.”

“Root who?”

“Just Root, as far as I’ve heard. Big money there. The kind of person that can deal and wrangle any tangled mess into solid gold. Started off in tech and still has significant interests there. You need to start reading more than the sports page, Shaw.”

“Hey, I read the headlines. Did you hear about the cocker spaniel recall?”

“Root’s always big news,” Finch said, ignoring her with heavy patience. “She’s got one of the finest art collections in the world. Art and... yes, antiques,” he continued, noting when Shaw started paying actual attention and turned toward him. “She’s a licensed gun collector. Rumor is she knows how to use them.”

“I’ll pay her a visit.”

“You’ll be lucky to get within the same city block as her.”

“I’m feeling lucky.” Shaw crossed over to the body to slip her hands under the sheets.

“The woman’s got powerful friends, Shaw. You can’t afford to so much as whisper she’s associated with this until you’ve got something solid.”

“You know damn well, Finch, that it’s a bad idea to challenge me.” But even as she started to crack a smile, her fingers brushed something between cold flesh and bloody sheets. “There’s something under her.” Shaw carefully lifted the shoulder with her sealed hands and eased her fingers underneath.

“Paper,” she murmured. “Sealed.” With her protected thumb, she wiped at a smear of blood until she could read the protected sheet.

> ONE OF SIX

“It looks hand printed,” she said to Finch, holding it out. “Our perp’s clever, but this arrogance, ego, isn't so clever. Compelled to announce to to the world that they’re not finished.”

Finch merely shook his head at the sheet, his face falling back into its most sombre lines.

* * *

Finch finished collecting all the electronic devices and left to run them through some high-tech meta-analysis software he swore by back at the precinct. Shaw spent the remainder of the day doing what would normally have been assigned to drones, but had to be handled by her personally due to the Code Five—finishing her examination of the scene and ensuring nothing “sensitive” remained before allowing the sweepers in, interviewing the victim’s neighbors, recording statements.

Once she was finally done in the victim’s building, she headed to midtown for the next interview. 

Lush plants and ornate water features were prominent in the reception area at the very exclusive Paradise salon. Tiny cups of real coffee and slim glasses of fizzy water or champagne were served to those lounging on the cushy chairs and settees. Top-of-the-line headsets and fashion magazine feeds were complimentary to visitors. 

The receptionist was a showy testament to the salon’s figure-sculpting techniques. She wore a snug, short outfit in the salon’s trademark red, as well as an incredible coif of ebony hair coiled like snakes. Her beautiful, meticulously made-up eyes were currently eyeing Shaw as if the detective were a piece of chewing gum she'd just noticed on her shoe while being seated for a date at a tony restaurant.

After the previous night and the morning she’d just put in, and as ragged as she was probably looking by now, Shaw could hardly blame her. Her attitude was just right—by now, Shaw was more than in the mood for an entertaining little tussle.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said in a carefully modulated voice as empty of expression as a cheap droid's. “We serve by appointment only.”

“That’s okay.” Shaw smiled professionally, with only a hint of teeth, and was almost sorry to puncture the disdain. Almost. “This ought to get me one.” She flashed her badge and spoke distinctly, with a touch of volume. “Who works on Claire Hallen?”

The receptionist’s horrified eyes darted toward the waiting area. “Our clients’ needs are strictly confidential.”

“I bet.” Enjoying herself now, Shaw leaned companionably on the low, U-shaped counter. “I can talk nice and quiet, like this, so we understand each other—Denise?” She flicked her gaze down to the discreet studded badge on the woman’s prominent breast. “Or I can keep talking louder, so everyone is clear about what’s going on. If you like the first idea better, you can take me to a nice quiet room where we won’t disturb any of your clients, and you can send in Claire Hallen’s operator. Or whatever term you use.”

“Consultant,” Denise said faintly. “If you’ll follow me.”

“My pleasure.” Shaw smiled at her again, not at all sincerely.

Outside of the media, Shaw had never seen anything so lush. The carpet, furnishings and plants were as luxurious throughout as in the reception area. The air smelled of flowers, high-end product, and pampered flesh. The receptionist showed her into a small room with a hologram of a summer meadow dominating one wall. The quiet sound of birdsong and gentle breezes softened the air.

“If you’d just wait here,” said the receptionist as she turned to beat a hasty retreat.

“No problem,” said Shaw to her back. She waited for the door to close, and with a tired sigh, lowered herself into a deeply cushioned chair. The moment she was seated, the display beside her blipped on, and a friendly, indulgent face that could only have been a sim’s appeared with a smile.

“Good afternoon and welcome to Paradise. Your beauty needs and your comfort are our only priorities. Would you like some refreshment while you await your personal consultant?”

“No.” Shaw would kill for some coffee right now, but she wanted to get the interview done and get out of there.

“Of course, as you prefer. Are there any further selections on display that you would care to choose at present? We offer sumptuous robes in a range of…”

“No.” Shaw cut it off mid-sell.

“Thank you. Please say ‘comfort menu’ if you would like to make a selection at any time. Enjoy your stay at Paradise, where we create your nirvana.”

Shaw could have sworn the thing said the last in practically the same snotty tones as the receptionist before the display dimmed into standby mode. Luckily, the door opened again before she could plant a fist in it. Pressing her lips together firmly, she rose and faced an elaborately dressed, very slender middle-aged man.

He wore an open, trailing smock of Paradise red over his fuchsia shirt and plum-colored slacks. His hair, flowing back from a painfully thin face, echoed the hue of his slacks. He offered Shaw a hand, squeezed gently, and stared at her out of soft doe eyes.

“I’m terribly sorry, Officer. I’m baffled.”

“It’s Lieutenant.” Shaw took out her badge and displayed it for him. “I want information on Claire Hallen, presumably your client.” 

“Yes, Lieutenant, ah, Shaw. I understand that much. Ms. Hallen is my client, yes. You must know, of course, our client data is strictly confidential. Paradise has a reputation for discretion as well as excellence.”

Shaw simply looked at him. “And you must know, of course, that I can get a warrant, Mr.—?”

“Oh, Sebastian. Simply Sebastian.” He waved a thin hand that sparkled with rings. “I’m not questioning your authority, lieutenant. But if you could assist me, your reasons for the inquiry?”

“I’m inquiring into the motives for Ms. Hallen’s murder.” She waited a beat, assessing the shock that widened his eyes with dismay and drained his face of color. “Other than that, matters pertaining to the case are strictly confidential.”

“ _Murder_? My dear God, our lovely Claire is dead? There must be a mistake.” He all but collapsed into a chair, letting his head fall back and his eyes close.

Shaw sat opposite him and took out her link to ensure her recorder was on. “Tell me about Claire.”

“A marvelous woman. Physically stunning, of course, but it went deeper than her looks.” He sat up again, visibly gathering himself together. “She has—had—flawless taste, a generous heart, rapier wit.”

He looked at Shaw with the doe eyes. “I saw her only two days ago.”

“Professionally?”

“She had a standing weekly appointment, half day. Every other week was a full day.” He whipped out a butter yellow scarf and dabbed at his eyes. “Claire took care of herself, believed strongly in the power of presentation.”

“It would be an asset in her line of work.”

“Naturally. She only worked to amuse herself. Money wasn’t a particular need with her family background. She enjoyed sex.”

“With you?”

Sebastian winced, his lips pursing in what could have been a pout or pain. “I was her consultant, her confidant, and her friend,” he said stiffly. “It would have been indiscreet and unprofessional for us to become sexual partners.”

“So you weren’t attracted to her, sexually?”

“It was impossible for anyone not to be attracted to her sexually. She...” He gestured flamboyantly. “Totally exuded sex. It was simply who she _was_. Her attractiveness, sparkle. My God.” He took a shaky breath. “It’s all past tense. I can’t believe it. Dead. Murdered.” His gaze shot back at Shaw. “You said murdered.”

“That’s right.”

“That neighborhood she lived in,” he said grimly. “No one could talk her her into moving to a more suitable location. She enjoyed living on the edge and flaunting it under her family’s aristocratic noses.”

“She and her family were at odds?”

“Oh, of course. She enjoyed shocking them. She was such a free spirit, and they are so... ordinary.” He said it in a tone of utter disdain. “Her grandfather, the senator, continues to introduce bills to legislate against sex work. As if the past century hasn’t proven that such things must not be criminalised, for everyone's health and security. He also stands against procreation regulation, gender adjustment, chemical balancing, and the gun ban.”

Shaw’s ears pricked up, although her tone remained neutral. “The senator opposes the gun ban?” 

“It’s one of his pet policies. Claire told me he owns a number of nasty antiques and harangues everyone regularly about that outdated right to bear arms business. If he had his way, we’d all be back in the twentieth century, murdering each other right and left.”

“Murder still happens,” Shaw commented in a flat voice. “Did she ever mention friends or clients who she might have fallen out with or who were dissatisfied, overly aggressive?”

“Claire had dozens of friends. She drew people to her, like...” He searched for a suitable metaphor, used the corner of the yellow scarf again. “Like a beautiful and fragrant flower. And her clients, as far as I know, were all delighted with her. She screened them carefully—all of her sexual partners had to meet certain standards. Appearance, intellect, sophistication, and proficiency. As I said, she enjoyed sex, in all of its many forms. She was... adventurous.”

That fit with the toys Shaw had unearthed in the apartment. The well-cared-for velvet handcuffs and supple whips, the scented oils and hallucinogens. Some of the offerings on the two sets of co-linked VR headsets had been eye-opening even to Shaw’s jaded perspective.

“Was she involved with anyone on a personal level?”

“There were lovers occasionally, but she usually lost interest fast. She liked variety.” He straightened up in his seat and became almost animated. “Though recently, she’d talked a lot about Root, the tech entrepreneur?” He paused and raised his eyebrows.

As bland-faced as if she read about Root every day in the finance feeds, Shaw simply nodded for him to continue.

“Well! It was really quite exciting. Claire had just met her at a party and was very attracted. Honestly, who wouldn't be? Root is completely mag as well as being _very_ solvent. And with excellent taste in _everything_.” The eyebrows shot up again for emphasis. “In fact, they hit it off so well that Claire was seeing Root for dinner the very night she came in for her last consultation. She’d wanted something special because they were dining in Mexico.”

“In Mexico. That would have been the night before last.”

“Yes. And before you ask, it was definitely not a professional date. Claire was just bubbling over about her—her beauty, her amazing wardrobe, her charm. So of course I pulled out all the stops. We gave her hair a light beachy look, added a bit more gold sheen to the skin—full body work. Rascal Red on the nails, and a charming little temp tattoo of a red-winged butterfly on the left buttock. Twenty-four-hour cosmetics so that she wouldn’t smudge. She looked spectacular,” he said, tearing up. “She kissed me and told me she just might be in love this time. ‘Wish me luck, Sebastian.’ She said that as she left. It was the last thing she ever said to me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw gets to know some of the players in the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some explicit violence in this one, including in a sexual context (the violence is not the fun kind).

“Fuck it,” Shaw muttered.

The autopsy report was useless. If Hallen had sex, the other party had been wrapped up nice and tight. All fluids present were solely those of the victim. The extent of her injuries made the tests for sexual activity inconclusive. The killer had blown her apart either for the symbolism or to obscure the physical evidence. Or both. No semen, no saliva, no vaginal fluids, no blood. Not even a stray hair. No DNA.

The forensic sweep of the murder site turned up no fingerprints—none. Not the victim’s, not her weekly cleaner’s, certainly not the murderer’s. All surfaces had been meticulously wiped, including the murder weapon. Most telling of all, in Shaw’s judgment, was the security footage. She cued up the elevator surveillance clips once again.

The clips were labeled by location and time—this one was: `Gorham Complex. Elevator A. 2-12-2058. 06:00.`

Shaw scrubbed through, watching the hours fly by. The elevator doors opened for the first time at noon. She slowed the speed and studied the nervous little man who entered and asked for the fifth floor. He was probably a john. Shaw was amused by his apparent jumpiness as he tugged at his collar and slipped a breath mint between his lips. Probably had a wife and two kids and a steady office job that allowed him to slip away for an hour once a week for his lunchtime delight.

Activity was light for several hours, the occasional SW riding down to the lobby, some returning with shopping bags and bored expressions. A few clients came and went. The action picked up about eight. Some residents went out, snazzily dressed for dinner, others came in to keep their appointments. At ten, an elegant-looking couple entered the car together. The woman allowed the man to open her fur coat, under which she wore nothing but stiletto heels and some ornate tattoos. He caressed her intimately, a technically illegal act in the shared space of a multi-occupant building. When the elevator stopped on eighteen, the woman drew her coat together, and they exited, talking animatedly to each other. Shaw made a note to interview the man the following day. That individual was the victim’s neighbor and known associate.

The glitch happened at precisely 12:05. The image shifted almost seamlessly, with only the faintest blip, and returned to surveillance at 02:46. Two hours and forty-one minutes lost.

The hallway feed for the eighteenth floor was exactly the same. Nearly three hours wiped. Shaw picked up her almost-cold coffee as she thought it through. Whoever did it understood surveillance systems and was familiar enough with the building to understand where and how to tap the feeds. Whoever did it had taken their time The autopsy put the victim’s death at two a.m. The killer had nearly two hours with her before finishing the job, and nearly an hour more after she’d been dead. Yet not a trace left behind.

_Killer's got some skills._

If Claire Hallen had recorded a midnight appointment, personal or professional, that, too, had been wiped. The perp either knew her intimately enough to be sure where she kept her files and how to access them, or had the kind of skill to be able to hack the online copies or even her devices. If they had access to them. On a hunch, Shaw leaned forward again. “Search owner, Gorham Complex, Broadway, New York.” 

Her lips pursed as the information came up.

`Gorham Complex, owned by Thornhill Industries, headquarters 500 Fifth Avenue. Root, president and CEO. New York residence, 222 Central Park West.`

“Root,” Shaw muttered to herself, not at all surprised. “Huh. You just keep turning up, don’t you, Root?”

She spoke to her link again: “Select subject Root, all data, bundle to tag 'root', display.” Ignoring the blip of the incoming call alert, Shaw sipped her coffee and read.

`Subject: Root [No known last name]`

`Born: 2023-12-05, Bishop, Nueces County, TX`

`ID: 651.025.68.HSHW`

`Parents: [Unknown]`

`Marital status: Single`

`President and CEO of Thornhill Industries, established 2042. Main branches: New York, Chicago, New Los Angeles, London, Paris, Berlin, Lagos, Hyderabad, Tokyo, Singapore, Sydney, Bogotá. Off-planet branches: Station 45, Bridgestone Colony, Vegas II, Free-Star One. Interests in information technology, security, biotech, entertainment, real estate, transportation, pharmaceuticals.`

`Estimated net worth: $223.8 billion`

_Busy woman._ Shaw lifted a brow as a very long list of Root’s companies began scrolling off the screen.

“Subject, education,” she interrupted.

`Unknown.`

“Subject, criminal record?”

`No data.`

“Subject, location, Bishop, Texas.”

`No additional data.`

“Well, shit. Ms. Mystery, in spades. Subject, description and visual.”

`Root: brown hair; brown eyes; 1.73 m; 58 kg`

Shaw grunted as the computer listed the description and then produced the pic. Looking at it, she had to admit that in Root’s case, a picture was worth at least a couple hundred words.

The image looked back at her from the screen. She was almost ridiculously beautiful: the perfectly-proportioned oval face; the high, full cheekbones; and generous, well-shaped mouth with a perfect cupid’s bow upper lip. Her makeup was perfect, subtle, light, but with a deep burgundy lip and smokily accentuated eyes. Yes, her hair was brown, but the description didn’t say it was a thick, molten, dark honey-brown falling in loose waves past her shoulders to the finely-chiseled collarbones exposed by her black dress. As stated, her eyes were also brown. That did not capture their size and luminescence, the deep walnut color with pronounced dark rim, nor, despite the pleasant expression and slight smile adopted for the posed image, the fiery intelligence and depth of power apparent in those eyes.

A standard publicity still; even so, Shaw could see this was an individual who knew what she wanted and took it when it suited her. There would be no fuss or drama: acquire, use. Yes, the image displayed a seductive attractiveness that would definitely be used to charm, but the surface appeal did not hide the confidence and determination beneath the gaze. The hint of arrogance.

And yes, Shaw was certain that the woman in the image was capable of killing, if and when it suited her. She would do so coolly, methodically, and without disturbing a single strand of that luxurious hair.

As Shaw closed the pic, her mind oddly threw up a memory of the Persian cookies her mother would bake before she passed away. The little crispy-chewy walnut ones. Young Sameen’s job had been to sit on the back step and carefully crack the whole walnuts with the old stone pestle that was almost too big for her hands. Her mother used to say the packaged nuts from the grocery were always “rancid” and not good enough for baking with. After Sameen had extracted all the nutmeat, her fingertips stained dark brown from the papery skins, she’d often play with the hard, glossy shells before gathering them up to add to the bucket by the old wood-fired iron stove they sometimes used in winter.

But memories of the smell of toasting walnuts while the cookies baked and the warmth of her mother’s kitchen weren’t getting shit done. _I’m getting way too tired for anything useful, if my head’s coming up with this random crap._

Grumbling at herself, Shaw prepared to wrap up for the day. Commanding her link to archive the data bundle for ready access, she decided she needed to have a talk with Root. Very soon.

* * *

By the time Shaw left the station to head home, the day had turned to darkness and the sky was spitting sharp little bits of ice, just enough to make the roads slippery and immediately freeze her hands. Her gloves were fuck knows where, her scarf was hiding out with them, and her beanie and coat were not enough to keep her warm after her vehicle’s shitty heater decided to suddenly bite the dust for once and for all.

After she finally parked her shit-bucket and made her famished and shivering way up to her apartment, all she wanted was a big slab of hot meat, maybe fries, and something hot and strong to wash it down with.

She unlocked her apartment door and saw the foreign object immediately as it swung open, a small cube just inside. Her weapon was out and in her hand before she drew the next breath. Sweeping the room with weapon and eyes, she kicked the door shut behind her. She left the object where it was and moved from room to room until she was certain she was alone.

After holstering her weapon, she shucked off her coat and tossed it aside. She grabbed a pair of chopsticks from the kitchen and picked up what turned out to be a small data storage cube with them and deposited it on the table. After a couple of attempts to flip it over, while cursing at stupid-ass slippery hard surfaces, she went to the bathroom and fetched tweezers so she could turn the cube around and inspect it at all angles. There was no inscription, label or message on any side.

Resigned, Shaw pulled a spare small burner link from a shelf and attached the cube to the input port. Without any prompt, a vid clip started playing on the link screen. Shaw instantly forgot all about food.

The video was top quality, as was the sound. She sat down slowly as the scene played out on screen. Naked, Claire Hallen lounged on the huge bed. She lifted a hand, skimming it through that glorious tumbled mane of russet hair as the bed’s floating motion rocked her.

“Want me to do anything special, darling?” She chuckled, rose up on her knees and cupped her own breasts, her thumbs teasing the nipples. “Why don’t you come back over here...” Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips. “And we’ll do it all again.” Her gaze swept up and down, and a little cat smile curved her lips. “You look hot and ready, baby.” Another laugh as she shook back her hair. “Oh, we want to play a game?” Still smiling, Claire put her hands up. “Don’t hurt me.” She whimpered, shivering even as her eyes gleamed with excitement. “I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Come on over here and force me. I want you to.” Lowering her hands, she began to stroke herself. “Hold that big, big gun to me while you do it. I want you to. I want you to—”

The loud explosion as the gun went off had Shaw reflexively clenching her fists and her jaw. Her breath halted as she saw the woman fly backward and the blood spray out of the back of her head. The second shot was less of a shock, but her entire body came on high alert. She had to force herself to stay in her seat, eyes on the screen, focused. After the final shot there was silence, but for the quiet music and the killer’s fractured breathing.

The camera zoomed in and panned the body in grisly detail. Then, a quick cut: Hallen was displayed as Shaw had first seen her on the crime scene, spread-eagled in a perfect X over bloody sheets. The vid ended with a text overlay.

> _ONE OF SIX_

It was easier to watch it through the second time. Or so Shaw told herself. This time she noticed the camera wobble a tiny amount after the first shot, and heard a quick, quiet gasp. She ran it back again, listening to each sound, studying each movement, hoping for some clue. But the perp was too clever for that. And they both knew it. The killer had wanted her to see just how good they were. Just how cold. And they had wanted her to know that they knew just where to find her. Whenever they chose.

Annoyed by the creeping chill sensation at the back of her neck, she rose abruptly. Rather than the coffee she’d intended, Shaw took a bottle of scotch from her booze shelf and poured a finger of it into a tumbler. She drank it down in one, promised herself another shortly, and then called the commander’s private contact.

The commander’s husband answered the call, and from his snappy suit and tie, Shaw deduced that she’d interrupted one of his famous poker parties. “Lieutenant Shaw, Mr. Marconi. I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, but I need to speak to the commander.”

“We’re entertaining, lieutenant," he said curtly.

“Yes, sir. I apologize.” _Fucking politics._ Shaw forced a smile. “It’s urgent.”

“It always is.”

She waited for a full three minutes before the commander came on.

“Shaw.”

“Commander, I need to send you something secured—are you alone in the room?”

“Yes. It better be urgent, Shaw. This is disrupting Anthony's plans for tonight. It’s the first free evening we’ve had for a while.”

“Yes, sir,” she said as she forwarded the clip. _Cops should just stay single and forget about the domestic bliss crap_.

She waited, folding her restless hands on the table. As the clip played again, she watched as well, ignoring the clenching in her gut. When it was over, Elias came back on-screen. His eyes were grim.

“Where did you get this?”

“It was delivered to me. Personally. A data cube was here, in my apartment, when I got back from the station.” Her voice was flat, precise. “The killer knows who I am, where I am, and what I’m doing.”

Elias was silent for a moment. “My office, 0700. Bring the cube, lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the transmission ended, she did the two things her instincts dictated. She made a backup of the cube, then she poured another finger of Scotch.

* * *

She woke at three, shuddering, clammy, fighting for the breath to scream. She managed to croak out an order for lights. Dreams were always more disturbing in the dark. She lay back, shivering. This one had been worse, much worse, than any she’d experienced before.

She’d killed the offender. There had been no other choice. He’d been too buzzed on chemicals to be stunned. Christ, she’d tried, but he’d just kept coming, and coming, with that wild look in his eyes and the already bloodied knife in his hand. The little girl had already been dead. There was nothing Shaw could have done to stop it. Nothing. She was certain. If it was found otherwise during the investigation, it would be impossible to live with that knowledge.

The small body hacked to pieces, the frenzied man all in black with the dripping knife. Then the look in his eyes when she’d fired on full, and how she’d watched the life vanish out of them.

But that hadn’t been all. Not this time. In the dream, he’d kept coming. She had been naked, kneeling in a pool of satin. The knife had become a gun, held by the woman whose face she’d studied hours before. Root. Dressed in lean black, hair flowing, calmly ruthless, her dark eyes like deep forest pools as they gazed down at Shaw on the bed, the gun pointed steady.

She’d smiled with that full burgundy mouth and Shaw had _wanted_ her. Her body was overwhelmed with a frisson of dread and arousal even as Root squeezed the trigger and shot her. Head, heart, and ...

And somewhere through it all, the little girl, the dead little girl, had been screaming for help.

Too tired to fight it, Shaw simply rolled over, pressed her face into her pillow and let a few hard tears come.

* * *

“Lieutenant.” At precisely seven a.m., Commander Elias gestured Shaw toward a chair in his office. Despite the fact, or perhaps due to the fact that he’d been riding a desk for twelve years, he had sharp eyes.

He could see at a glance that she’d slept badly. She'd done more than usual with makeup to try and disguise the signs of a disturbed night. In silence, he extended his hand for the evidence bag that she'd placed the cube in. Elias glanced at it, then laid it in the center of his desk.

“According to protocol, I’m obliged to ask you if you want to be relieved from this case.” He waited a beat. “We’ll say I did.”

“Yes, sir.” Shaw's return gaze was completely expressionless.

“Is your residence secure, Shaw?”

“I thought so.” She laid a printed copy of her report on his desk. “I reviewed the security footage after I contacted you. There’s a ten minute time lapse. As you’ll see in my report, the perp is fully capable of compromising good quality data and physical security, is competent at vid editing, and, obviously, has access to and knowledge of antique weapons.”

Elias took her report and set it to one side. “That doesn’t narrow the field overmuch.”

“No, sir. There are several more people I need to interview. With this perpetrator, electronic investigation isn’t primary, though Lieutenant Finch’s help is invaluable. This particular killer covers their tracks well. We have no physical evidence other than the weapon deliberately left at the scene. Finch wasn’t able to trace it through normal channels. We have to assume it wasn’t obtained via those channels—it’s black market. I’ve started on the victim’s trick books and her personal appointments, but she wasn’t the shy kind. It’s going to take time.”

“Time’s part of the problem. 'One of six', lieutenant. What does that say to you?”

“That the killer has five more in mind, and wants us to know it. They’re enjoying the work and our attention.” She paused for a couple of moments. “There’s not enough for a full psychiatric profile. We can’t say how long the perp will be satisfied by the thrill of this murder, when they’ll need it again. It could be anytime, today, a year from now. We can’t bank on any carelessness.”

Elias merely nodded. “Are you having problems with the rightful termination?”

The knife, slippery with blood. The small ruined body at her feet. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Be sure of it, Shaw. I don’t need an officer on a sensitive case like this worrying about whether to use her weapon.”

“I’m sure of it.”

She was the best he had, and he couldn’t afford to doubt her. “Are you up to playing politics?” His lips curved thinly. “Senator Hallen is on his way over. He flew into New York last night.”

“Diplomacy isn’t my strong suit.”

“I’m aware. But you’re going to look at this as an opportunity for 'professional development',” Elias emphasised with heavy irony. “The senator wants to talk to the investigating officer, and he went over my head to arrange it. Orders came down from the chief that you’re to give the him your full cooperation.”

“This is a Code Five investigation,” Shaw said, insulted, clenching her hand. “I don’t care if orders came down from God Almighty, I am not giving sensitive data to a civilian.”

Elias’s smile widened. He had a pleasant round face, probably the one he was born with. But when he smiled and meant it, it transformed into something special, charismatic.

“I didn’t hear that. And you didn’t hear me tell you to give him no more than the obvious facts. What you do hear me tell you, Lieutenant Shaw, is that the the great senator is a pompous, arrogant asshole. Unfortunately, the asshole has power. So watch your step. I don’t need to have a good cop distracted or removed from this case without my being able to do squat about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

He glanced at his watch, then slipped the file and storage cube into his safe drawer. “You’ve got time for a cup of coffee... and, lieutenant,” he added as she rose. “If you’re having trouble sleeping, take your authorized sedative. I want my officers sharp.”

“I’m sharp enough.”

* * *

Senator Jim Hallen was undoubtedly pompous. He was unquestionably arrogant. After one full minute in his company, Shaw agreed that he was undeniably an asshole.

He was perhaps 1.8 m in height, 100 kilos. He had a full head of silver hair, conservatively parted to one side. His eyes were brown and small, his cheeks slablike and heavy, and he had a large nose and mouth. His hands were enormous, and when he clasped Shaw’s briefly on introduction, she noted they were smooth and soft as a baby’s.

He brought his adjutant with him. Davis Bannerman was a tall man in his early forties. Though he was around 1.95 m tall, Shaw gave Hallen ten kilos on him. Neat, tidy, his pin-striped suit and slate blue tie showed not a single crease. His face was solemn, attractively even-featured, his movements restrained and controlled as he assisted the more flamboyant senator out of his cashmere overcoat.

“What the hell have you done to find the monster who killed my granddaughter?” Hallen demanded in his upper-crust voice.

“Everything possible, senator.” Commander Elias remained standing. Though he offered Hallen a seat, the man prowled the room, as he was given to prowl the New Senate Gallery in East Washington.

“You’ve had twenty-four hours and more,” Hallen shot back, his voice deep and booming. “It’s my understanding you’ve assigned only two officers to the investigation.”

“For security purposes, yes. Two of my best officers,” the commander added. “Lieutenant Shaw heads the investigation and reports solely to me.”

Hallen turned those small brown eyes on Shaw. “So. What progress have you made?”

“We identified the weapon, ascertained the time of death. We’re gathering evidence and interviewing residents of Ms. Hallen’s building, and tracking the names in her personal and business logs. I’m working to reconstruct the last twenty-four hours of her life.”

“It should be obvious, even to a complete idiot, that she was murdered by one of her clients.”

“There was no appointment listed for several hours prior to her death. Her last client has an alibi for the critical hour.”

“Break it,” Hallen demanded. “A man who would pay for sexual favors would have no compunction about murder.”

Though Shaw failed to see the correlation between a client and a murderer, she decided to leave that one alone. But not the other. “Ms. Hallen had clients of all genders.”

If looks could kill, Shaw would be a pile of ashes on the spot. The senator turned bright red and opened his mouth to speak, but Bannerman put a hand on his arm.

Elias intervened, cutting Shaw a quick warning glance. “The lieutenant is actively working the case, senator. Is there anything else we can help you with?”

“I want copies of her appointment books.”

“That’s not possible, I’m sorry,” Elias said mildly. “All evidence of a capital crime is confidential.”

Hallen merely snorted and gestured toward Bannerman.

“Commander.” Bannerman reached in his left breast pocket and drew out a sheet of paper affixed with a holographic seal. “This document from your chief of police authorizes the senator access to any and all evidence and investigative data on Ms. Hallen’s murder.”

Elias barely glanced at the document before setting it aside. “I’ll speak to the chief personally. If the authorization holds, we’ll have copies to you by this afternoon.” Dismissing Bannerman from his attention, he looked back at Hallen. “The confidentiality of evidence is a major tool in the investigative process. If you insist on this, you risk undermining the case.”

“The 'case', as you put it, commander, was my flesh and blood.”

“And as such, I’d hope your first priority would be assisting us to bring her killer to justice.”

“I’ve served justice for more than fifty years. I want that information by noon today.” He picked up his coat and tossed it over an arm. “If I’m not satisfied that you’re doing everything in your power to find this deviant, I’ll see that you’re removed from this office.” He turned toward Shaw. “And that the next thing you investigate, lieutenant, will be teens hopping turnstiles down in Transit.”

As he bulled out of the room, Bannerman gave them an apologetic look. “You must forgive the senator. He’s overwrought. However much strain there was between him and his granddaughter, she was family. Nothing is more vital to the senator than his family. Her death, this violent, senseless death, is devastating to him.”

“Right,” Shaw muttered. “He looked all choked up.”

Bannerman gave a sad smile. “Proud men often disguise their grief behind what looks like aggression. We have every confidence in your abilities and your tenacity, lieutenant. Commander,” he nodded. “We’ll expect the data this afternoon. Thank you for your time.”

“He’s slick,” Shaw muttered when Bannerman shut the door quietly behind him. “Are you going to give it up to them, commander?”

“I’ll give them what I have to.” His voice was sharp and edged with suppressed rage. “Now get me something that _we_ can use.”

* * *

Police work was mostly sheer drudgery, and right now, it was just that. After five hours of staring at her screen as she ran makes on the names in Hallen’s books, Shaw was more exhausted than she would have been after a marathon race. Even with Finch taking a portion of the names with his skill, superior equipment and so-amazing meta-analysis algorithm, there were too many for such a small investigative unit to handle quickly. Claire had been very, very popular.

Deciding the discreet route might be worth trying for once, Shaw contacted the clients by link and explained the circumstances. Those who balked at the idea of an interview were cordially invited to come into Cop Central, charged with obstruction of justice. By midafternoon she had spoken personally with the first dozen on the client list. On the way back to the precinct, she decided to detour via the Gorham.

Hallen’s neighbor, the elegant man from the elevator, was Tomas Koroa. Shaw found him at home and entertaining a client. Sensually handsome in a black silk robe, with a few tousled black curls falling onto his face and smelling of sex, Tomas smiled engagingly down at her in the doorway.

“I’m sorry, lieutenant. My three o’clock appointment has another fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll wait.” Without invitation, Shaw strode inside. Unlike Hallen’s apartment, this one ran to deep, cushy chairs in leather and thick carpets, tasteful art on the walls.

“Ah...” Grinning, obviously amused, Tomas glanced behind him, where a door was closed at the end of a short hallway. “My client didn’t pay for any extras on this occasion, I’m sorry. So it’s really not a good time to join us.”

Shaw gave him a flat stare.

Still smiling, but with a firm tone, he continued, “Privacy and confidentiality are vital to my profession. As entertaining as it might be for you, my client would be kinda perturbed if she discovers the police on the premises.”

Shaw got the point. “I’m not here for cheap laughs or any other kind of entertainment. So, not a problem. Got a kitchen?”

He let out a short sigh, resigned. “Sure. Right through that doorway. Make yourself at home, help yourself to any refreshments. I won’t be long.”

“Take your time.” Shaw went through to the kitchen. In contrast to the well-decorated living area, this was plain. It seemed Tomas spent little time eating in. Still, he had a full-size friggie stocked with a good selection of drinks and snacks, and she struck gold with a chilled fizzy. Pleased, she sat down to enjoy it while Tomas finished with his three o’clock.

Soon enough, she heard the murmur of voices, his and a woman’s, a light laugh. He came into the kitchen moments later, the same easy smile on his face.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No problem. Are you expecting anyone else?”

“Not until later this evening.” He took out a fizzy for himself, broke the seal, and poured it into a tall glass. He rolled the tube into a ball and tossed it underhand into the recycler. “Dinner, the opera, and a romantic rendezvous.”

“You like that stuff? Opera?” she asked when he flashed a grin.

“Hate it. Can you think of anything more tedious than some bizarrely-costumed woman screaming in German half the night?”

Shaw didn’t have to think very long. “Nope.”

“But there you are. Tastes vary.” His smile faded as he joined her at the little nook under the kitchen window. “I heard about Claire on the news this morning. I’ve been expecting cops to come by. It’s horrible. I can’t believe she’s dead.”

“You knew her well?”

“We’ve been neighbors more than three years and we occasionally worked together. One or other of our clients would request a threesome, or more, from time to time, so we’d share the business.”

“And when it wasn’t business, did you still share?”

“She was a beautiful woman, and she also found me attractive.” He shrugged slightly, his eyes shifting to the window as a tourist tram went by. “If one of us was in the mood for a pleasant bit of fun, the other usually obliged.” He smiled again. “But it was rare. Like working in a candy store, after a while you lose your taste for chocolate. She was more a friend, lieutenant. And I was very fond of her.”

“Can you tell me where you were the night of her death between midnight and three a.m.?”

His brows shot up. If he hadn’t just realised he was on the suspect list, he was an excellent actor. _Then again, people in his line of work have to be._

“I was with a client, here. An overnight date.”

“Is that usual?”

“This client likes it that way, yes. I can give you her name if absolutely necessary, but I’d prefer not to. At least until I’ve explained the circumstances to her.”

“It’s homicide, Mr. Koroa, so it’s necessary. What time did you bring your client here?”

“About ten. We had dinner at Miranda’s, the sky cafe above Sixth.”

“Ten.” Shaw nodded, and saw the moment he realised.

“The security camera in the elevator.” His smile was all charm again. “It’s an antiquated law. I suppose you could bust me, but it’s hardly worth your time.”

“Any sexual act in a shared area is a misdemeanor, Mr. Koroa.”

“Tomas, please.”

“It’s a nitpick, Tomas, but your license could be suspended. Give me her name, and we’ll clear it up as quietly as possible.”

“You’re going to lose me one of my best clients,” he muttered. “Christina Rojas. I’ll get you the details.” He rose to get his link, then shot over the information.

“Thanks. Did Claire talk about her clients with you?”

“As I said, we were friends,” he said. “Yeah, we talked shop, though it’s not strictly ethical. She had some funny stories. I’m more conventional in style. Claire was... open to the unusual. Sometimes we’d get together for a drink, and she’d talk. No names. She had her own little terms for them. The emperor, the weasel, the milkmaid, that kind of thing.”

“Was there anyone she mentioned who worried her, made her uneasy? Someone who might have been violent?”

“She didn’t mind violence, not the sexy kind. She didn’t mention any other kind, and no, nobody worried her. One thing about Claire, she liked the job because she felt in control. She said she wanted it that way because she’d been under someone else’s control most of her life. She had a lot of bitterness toward her family. She told me once she’d never planned on making a career out of professional sex, that she'd only gotten into it to make her family crazy. But once she started, had a few good dates, she decided she really liked it.”

He shrugged slightly again and sipped from his glass. “So she stayed in the life, and killed two birds with one fuck. Her phrase.” He lifted his eyes to Shaw’s. “Looks like one of the fucks killed her.”

“Yeah.” Shaw rose, tucked her recorder away. “Don’t go out of town, Tomas. I’ll be in touch.”

“That’s all?”

“For now.”

He stood as well and smiled again. “You’re easy to talk to for a cop... Shaw.” Slowly, with an experimental air, he skimmed a fingertip down her arm. When her brows lifted, he stroked the fingertip along her jawline. “In a hurry?”

“Why?”

“I’ve got a couple of spare hours and you’re incredibly attractive. Hot. These beautiful dark eyes,” he said in a sensual tone. “This amazing mouth. Why don’t we both go off the clock for a while?”

She waited while he lowered his head, until his lips hovered just above hers. “Is this a bribe, Tomas?” she said, her voice low. “Because if it is, and you’re half as good as I think you are...”

“I’m better.” He brushed her bottom lip with his mouth and let his hand slide down over her breast. “I’m much better.”

“Well, in that case... I’d have to charge you with a felony.” She smiled as he jerked back. “And that would make both of us really, really sad.” Amused, she briefly laid her hand on his cheek. “But, you know, thanks for the thought.”

He rubbed two fingers over the very attractive stubble where her hand had just been as he followed her to the door. “Shaw?”

She paused, hand hovering over the door sensor, and glanced back at him. “Yeah?”

“Bribes aside, if you change your mind, once this is done, I’d be interested.”

“I’ll let you know.”

She let the door close behind her and headed for the elevator, thinking it over. It would not be difficult for Koroa to slip out of his apartment, leaving his client sleeping, and slip into Claire’s. A little sex, a little murder.... She stepped into the elevator and ordered it to the ground floor.

Even doctoring the feed wasn't too much of a reach. As a resident of the building, it would have been relatively simple for him to gain access to building security. He could take care of that business, then slide right back into bed with his client.

Shaw reached the lobby and exited the elevator. The scenario was definitely plausible. It was too bad—she liked him. But until she checked his alibi thoroughly, Tomas Koroa was now at the top of her short list.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw finally gets to meet the mysterious Root, CEO of Thornhill Industries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW mild drug use. This is about as spicy as we get with drug use, although Shaw does indulge herself sometimes. She has very passionate feels about coffee.

Shaw hated funerals. So much bullshit. So much emotion, raw and fake. So much having to make nice, even when the dearly-beloved was hated by one and all. Even when the person was genuinely loved and missed, Shaw could not see how public eulogies and lamentations made any difference. They were gone. End of story.

_If there is a god, it must think that all this melodramatic crap is a huge, farcical joke._

She had made the trip to Virginia to attend Claire Hallen's funeral. She wanted to see the deceased's family and friends gathered together: to observe and analyze them, and their interactions with each other. 

The senator stood grim-faced and dry-eyed, with Bannerman, his shadow, one pew behind. Beside Hallen was his son and daughter-in-law. 

Claire's parents were young, attractive, successful attorneys who headed their own law firm. Graham Hallen stood with his head bowed and his eyes hooded, a milder and somehow less dynamic version of his father. Was it coincidence, Shaw wondered, or design that he stood at equal distance between his father and wife? Connie Wyler, his wife, was sleek and chic in her dark suit, her long mahogany hair glossy, her posture rigid. Shaw noted that her eyes red-rimmed and swimming with constant tears.

Senator Hallen also had a daughter and she stood by his right side. Congresswoman Catherine Hallen had followed in her father's political footsteps. Painfully thin, she stood militarily straight, her arms looking like brittle twigs in her black dress. Beside her, her husband Justin Summit stared at the glossy coffin draped with roses at the front of the church. At his side, their son Franklin, still trapped in the gangly stage of adolescence, shifted restlessly.

At the end of the pew, somehow separate from the rest of the family, was Hallen's wife, Anna. She showed almost no emotion. Not once did Shaw see her so much as glance at the flower-strewn coffin that held what was left of her only granddaughter.

There were others, of course. Connie's parents stood together, hands linked, and wept openly. Friends, family and acquaintances dabbed at their eyes or simply looked around in fascination or horror. The President had sent an envoy, and the church was packed with more politicians than the Senate lunchroom.

Although there were more than a hundred faces, Shaw had no trouble picking Root out of the crowd. She was alone. There were others in the same pew, but Shaw could discern the isolation around her. There could have been ten thousand in the building, and she would have remained aloof.

She was wearing a dark knee-length dress that looked both simple and expensive. A similarly classy wool coat was draped across the back of her seat. Her luxurious hair was confined in a relaxed low bun. There were small black studs in her ears and a silver necklace studded with black gems clasped her elegant neck. Her striking face gave nothing away: no guilt, no grief. Only a blandly sober expression while she listened to the choir sing a hymn.

More than one head turned in her direction for a quick study or, in the case of an attractive brunette, a not-so-subtle flirtation. Root responded to both the same way: she completely ignored them.

Shaw's first impression was that she was guarded and cool, reserved. But there must be some heat in there. It took more than discipline and intelligence to rise so high so young. It took ambition, and to Shaw's mind, ambition could strike hot and flame into the unexpected.

Root was looking straight ahead as the hymn swelled to what passed as its climax. Then, without warning, she turned her head, looked four pews back across the aisle and directly into Shaw's eyes.

The abruptness of that direct look and the almost audible snap as their eyes met had Shaw fighting to suppress a visible reaction at the unexpected punch of power. Her will was all that kept her from blinking or shifting her gaze even one millimeter. For several humming seconds, they stared at each other. Then there was movement as the service ended, and a stream of mourners came between them as they began to leave the church.

When Shaw stepped into the aisle to search Root out again, she was gone.

* * *

She joined the long line of cars and limos on the journey to the cemetery. Above, the hearse and the family vehicles flew solemnly. Only the very rich could afford body internment. Only the obsessively traditional still put their dead into the ground. Frowning, her fingers tapping the wheel, she relayed her observations into her link's recorder. When she got to Root, she hesitated and her frown deepened.

“Why would she bother attending the funeral for a casual acquaintance?” she said. “According to information received to date, they had met only recently and had a single date. Behavior seems inconsistent and questionable.”

Shaw set her face, glad she was alone, as she drove through the arching gates of the cemetery. As far as she was concerned, there should be a law against putting someone in a hole.

More words and weeping, more flowers. It was a sunny clear day, but the air had a cold bite. Near the gravesite, she slipped her hands into her pockets. She'd forgotten her gloves again. Inside her thin leather boots, her toes were tiny blocks of ice. The long, dark coat she wore was borrowed. Beneath it, the single gray suit she owned had a loose button that seemed to beg her to fiddle with it. She resisted the urge to just rip it off.

The discomfort helped distract her from the misery of headstones and the smell of cold, freshly-overturned earth. She remained waiting until the last prayers about everlasting life finally ended, and she then approached the senator.

“My sympathies, Senator Hallen, to you and your family.”

His eyes were hard; sharp and black, without even pretend cordiality. “Save your sympathies, lieutenant. I want justice.”

“So do I. Mrs. Hallen.” Shaw held out a hand and took the senator's wife cold, thin one.

“Thank you for coming.”

Shaw nodded. One close look had shown her Anna Hallen was doped to the eyeballs, barely aware enough to make with the niceties. Her eyes skimmed over Shaw's face and settled just above her shoulder as she withdrew her hand. 

“Thank you for coming,” she said in exactly the same flat tone to the next offer of condolences.

Before Shaw could speak again, her arm was taken in a firm grip. Bannerman gave her a solemn smile. “Lieutenant Shaw, the Senator and his family appreciate the compassion and interest you've shown in attending the service.” He discreetly steered her away from the mourners. Shaw managed to not immediately rip his hand off and apply an arm lock of her own to see how he liked it. Discretion. Professional growth.

He continued speaking in a measured tone. “I'm sure you'll understand that, under the circumstances, it would be difficult for Claire's parents to witness the officer investigating their daughter's death standing over her grave.”

Shaw allowed him to lead her a few meters away before she jerked her arm free. “You're in the right business, Bannerman. That's a very delicate and diplomatic way of telling me to get my ass out.”

“Not at all.” He continued with his smoothly polite manner, still smiling gently. “But there is a time and place. You already have our complete cooperation, lieutenant. If you wish to interview the senator's family, I'd be more than happy to arrange it.”

“Thanks, I'll arrange my own interviews, when I choose.” Because his placid smile pissed her off, she decided to see if she could wipe it off his face. “And what about you, Bannerman? Got an alibi for the night in question?”

The smile faltered now—that was something. He recovered quickly, however. “I don't like the word 'alibi' much.”

“Me neither,” she returned with a slightly shark-like smile of her own. “That's why I like nothing better than to break them. You didn't answer the question.”

“I was in East Washington on the night Claire was murdered. The senator and I worked quite late refining a bill he intends to present next month.”

“It's a quick trip from EW to New York.”

“It is. However, I didn't make it on that particular night. We worked until nearly midnight, then I retired to the senator's guest room. We had breakfast together at seven the next morning. As Claire, according to your report, was killed at two, it would only provide a very narrow window of opportunity.”

“Narrow windows still provide access.” But she said it only to irritate him as she turned away. She'd withheld the information on the doctored security files from the dossier she'd provided Hallen. The murderer had been in the Gorham by midnight. Bannerman would hardly use the victim's grandfather for an alibi unless it was solid. If Bannerman was working in East Wash at midnight, even that narrow window was firmly shit.

She saw Root again, and watched with interest as Connie Wyler clung to her, as Root bent her head and murmured to her. It didn't seem like the usual offer and acceptance of sympathy among strangers. Shaw frowned as she observed Root laying a hand on Connie's right cheek and kissing her left, before stepping back to speak quietly to Graham Hallen.

Root then crossed over to the senator, but there was no contact between them, and the conversation was brief. Alone, as Shaw had guessed, she began to walk across the winter grass, between the cold monuments the living raised for the dead.

“Root.”

She stopped, and as she had at the service, turned and met Shaw's eyes with a steady gaze. Shaw thought she caught a flash of something in them: anger, sorrow, impatience. Then it was gone and they were simply cool, deep brown, and unfathomable.

Shaw didn't hurry as she walked over. Something told her Root was used to people rushing toward her. So she took her time, her deliberate strides flapping her borrowed coat around her chilly legs. Root patiently awaited her approach, her belted calf-length black wool coat blowing against her own legs as the cold wind gusted.

“I'd like to speak with you,” Shaw said bluntly when they were face-to-face. She took out her badge and watched Root give it a brief glance before looking Shaw directly in the eye again. “I'm investigating Claire Hallen's murder.”

“Do you make a habit of attending the funerals of murder victims, Lieutenant Shaw?”

Her voice was low, almost caressing, with a tiny hint of a nasal tone that did nothing to lessen its appeal.

“Do you make a habit of attending the funerals of women you barely know, Root?”

“I'm a friend of the family,” she said calmly.

The chill breeze was intensifying. Shaw shivered slightly, despite herself.

A few creases appeared in Root's forehead as she looked down at Shaw. “You're freezing, lieutenant.”

Shaw stuck her icy fingers into the pockets of the coat. “How well do you know the victim's family?” 

“Well enough.” Root tilted her head to the right, watching her. She felt certain the lieutenant's teeth would start chattering soon. The nasty little wind was blowing wispy lengths of the cop's dark hair around a very interesting face. Intelligent, dedicated ...hot. Three very good reasons to take a second look. “Wouldn't it be more convenient to talk someplace warmer?”

“I've been unable to reach you,” Shaw said, ignoring Root's remark.

“I've been traveling, but you've reached me now. I assume you're returning to New York. Today?”

“Yes. I have a few minutes before I have to leave for the shuttle. So—”

“So we'll go back together. That should give you time enough to interrogate me.” Root gave the smallest sideways twitch of her mouth.

“ _Question_ you,” Shaw said through her teeth, annoyed, as Root literally turned mid-conversation and walked away. Shaw growled under her breath and hurried after her, lengthening her stride to catch up with Root's long-legged purposeful lope. “A few simple answers now, Root, and we can arrange a more formal interview in New York.”

“Why waste time?” Root asked, turning her head toward Shaw and raising her eyebrows. “You strike me as someone who'd feel the same. Did you rent a vehicle?”

“Yes.”

“I'll have it returned.” She stopped by a black limo where a uniformed driver waited, holding the rear door open.

“That isn't necessary.”

“It's less complicated. Life is complicated enough, lieutenant, and I'd rather make things simple. You and I are going to the same destination at around the same time. You want to talk to me and I would be pleased to oblige.” She held out a hand, waiting for the key card. “My transport's routed for New York. You could follow me to the airport, take public transportation, with any of the delays that entails, and then call my office for an appointment at the next available time. Or you can ride with me to the airport, enjoy the privacy of my aircraft on the way to New York, and have my full attention during the trip.”

Deciding not too think too much about what _full attention_ might imply, Shaw made a split-second decision, took the key card for the rental from her pocket, and dropped it into her hand. Root's mouth turned up in an almost-smug smile as she politely gestured Shaw into the limo. Internally shaking her head at herself, Shaw settled into its palatial seating, while Root instructed the driver to deal with the rental vehicle.

“Now, then. Please make yourself comfortable.” Root slid in elegantly beside her, tucking in mile-long legs that were set off by the black dress, her subtly spicy perfume reaching Shaw's nose. She suppressed the urge to inhale deeply at the inviting smell. Root reached for a decanter. “Would you like a whiskey to fight off the chill?”

“No.” She felt the warmth inside the limo sweep up from her feet and was afraid she'd begin to shiver in reaction.

“Ah. On duty. Coffee perhaps.”

“Great.”

Shaw noticed Root's elegant hands with their strangely black-painted short fingernails as she cued up the mini AutoChef built into the side panel and prepared to give their coffee orders. “Cream?”

“Thanks.”

“Not as austere as I expected, lieutenant.”

Shaw raised her eyes heavenward—at least she managed to suppress the full roll—and didn't bother replying.

A few moments later, Root opened the AutoChef's door and offered Shaw a china cup in a delicate saucer. “We have more of a selection on my aircraft,” she said, then settled back with her own coffee.

“I bet.” The steam rising from her cup smelled like heaven. Shaw took a tentative sip—and nearly groaned aloud.

The coffee was _real_. No simulation made from vegetable concentrate that was so much the norm since the depletion of the rain forests in the early part of the century. This was the real thing, ground from rich Colombian beans, singing with caffeine.

She sipped again, and tried to keep too much of the pleasure from her face.

“Problem with the coffee, lieutenant?” Root was enjoying her reaction immensely, the quiver of her long lashes, the faint flush, the widening of her eyes. She wondered if the cop would have similar responses in more ...intimate circumstances.

“Do you know how long it's been since I had real coffee?”

Root smiled again, perhaps a little too much. “Well, no.”

“Neither do I.” Unashamed, Shaw closed her eyes as she lifted the cup again. “You'll have to excuse me, this is a private moment. We'll talk when I'm done with this.”

“As you wish.”

Root let herself have the pleasure of covertly watching Shaw's face as the limo traveled smoothly over the road. It was strange and a little unsettling that Root hadn't immediately pegged the woman as a cop. Her instincts were usually keen and were certainly well-honed by experience where law enforcement was concerned. 

She'd spent much of the funeral service contemplating what a terrible waste it was for someone as young, foolish, and full of life as Claire to be dead. But as the pointless ritual went on, she'd felt something that made the hair on the back of her neck rise. A sensation of being observed, the pressure of a steady gaze focused on her: the feeling was as physical as a slap to the head. When she'd turned to locate the observer and saw the lieutenant gazing straight at her, the shock of their eyes meeting had felt like another blow. A slow motion one-two combo she hadn't been able to evade.

But the alarm hadn't gone off even then—the one that should have yelled “police!” She'd seen a compact, athletic, beautiful—if pale and tired-looking—woman, with bottomless black eyes, a fine nose, and a mouth made for sex. If Shaw hadn't come looking for her, Root would have gone in search of that perfect form, tried to get to know the person behind the eyes that were looking at her with such intensity.

Too damn bad she was a cop.

Root didn't speak for the remainder of their journey to the airport, working on her link most of the way. She let Shaw enjoy the coffee in peace and remained almost silent, until they entered the cabin of her Sirius XD aircraft.

Shaw was impressed despite herself, and she hated it. Coffee was one thing, and she could sometimes permit herself a small indulgence while working. But she didn't care for her reaction to the cosily-stylish cabin with its calm lighting, deep chairs, comfy sofas, plush deep purple rug, and vases filled with beautifully-arranged flowers. The entire forward wall was a viewing screen, and a uniformed flight attendant—who showed no surprise at seeing Root board with an unannounced woman—was finishing up her cabin preparations.

“Shall I serve whiskey, Root?” the attendant asked.

Shaw was a little surprised at the informality, but despite the coolness Shaw discerned earlier, Root was not coming across as someone who stood on ceremony at all. Almost the opposite.

“My companion prefers coffee, Diana, light.” She lifted her well-shaped brows until Shaw nodded. “I'll have my usual, thank you.”

“I've heard about the Sirius.” Shaw shrugged out of her coat, and it was whisked away along with Root's by the attendant. “It's a nice form of transportation.”

“Thanks. We spent two years designing it.”

“Thornhill Industries?” she said as she took a seat.

“That's right. I prefer using my own whenever possible.” Root told her. The attendant returned to stand by Shaw, looking expectant. “You'll need to strap in for take-off—we use a new harness design. Could you assist Lieutenant Shaw, please, Diana?” She leaned forward to address the comms as she fastened her own. “Flight, we're almost ready, thank you.”

“We've been cleared,” they were told. “Sixty seconds.”

“We'll be good to go,” replied Root. 

Diana finished with Shaw's harness and retired to the rear of the cabin to strap herself in. Almost before Shaw could blink, they were airborne, in so smooth a transition she barely felt the Gs. It beat the hell out of the commercial flights that slapped you back in your seat for the first five minutes of air time. 

They were served their drinks and a little plate of fruit and cheese that had Shaw's mouth watering. She was hungry and the sight of food was not helping, but she held onto her willpower. _Enough with the pleasantries. Time to get to work._

“How long did you know Claire Hallen?”

“I met her recently, at the home of a mutual acquaintance.”

“You said you were a friend of the family.”

“Of her parents,” Root said easily. “I've known Connie and Graham for several years. Firstly just for business, then on a more personal level. Claire was in school, then in Europe, and our paths didn't cross. I met her for the first time a few days ago and took her to dinner. Then she was dead.”

She took a flat silver case from her clutch. Shaw's eyes narrowed as she watched Root light a slim joint. “Smoking's illegal in flight, Root.”

“Not on a private aircraft.” She smiled at Shaw through a light wisp of smoke. “Don't you think, lieutenant, that the police have enough to do without trying impose so many rules over our morality and personal lifestyles?”

Root sparking up an actual joint seemed strangely out of place for a tech entrepreneur. Shaw was pretty jaded about what substances the rich put into their bodies—marijuana was nothing. But actual dried weed rolled up in paper and lit with a flame was downright idiosyncratic these days. Almost quaint.

As well as being annoyed by Root basically flipping her the bird by continuing to smoke, Shaw hated that the light, spicy aroma of the weed smelled enticing to her. It had been way too long since she'd indulged, and the thought did nothing to lessen her irritation. “Is that why you collect guns? As part of your 'personal lifestyle'?”

“I find them fascinating. They're exquisite pieces of machinery, embodying a lot of very explosive power in a compact form.” Root's smile was definitely smug as she looked back at Shaw, a hint of assessment in her gaze.

Shaw was not going to give her the satisfaction of showing any reaction to that remark. “But murder and injury from the explosive power of those weapons is now an aberration rather than the norm. Due to gun ownership controls, the current regulations, the homicide rate has dropped by over eighty percent over the last fifty years. Mass murders are almost non-existent.”

“So you're fond of rules, lieutenant?”

The question was mild; not so much the implication beneath it. Shaw's chin tilted up as she met Root's amused eyes. “Without rules, chaos.”

“With chaos, life.”

Now she was pissed. _Fuck philosophy. And being patronised._ “Do you own a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson, Model 10, circa 1990?”

Root took another slow inhalation of weed, the joint burning between her long, elegant fingers, the black-painted fingernails catching Shaw's eye again. “Yes, I'm pretty sure I own one of that model. Is that what killed her?”

“Would you be willing to show it to me?”

“Absolutely. I'd be delighted to show you whatever you need”

Shaw ignored the double entendre—the other woman was just messing with her, trying to keep her off-balance. That prompt agreement seemed too easy, though. She was highly suspicious of anything that came so easily. “You had dinner with the deceased the night before her death. In Mexico.”

“That's right.” Root crushed out the joint and settled back with her coffee. “I have a small villa on the west coast. I thought she'd enjoy it. She did.”

“Did you have a physical relationship with Claire Hallen?”

Root's eyes glittered for a moment, but whether with amusement or with anger, she couldn't be sure. “By that, I take you to mean did I have sex with her. No, lieutenant, though it hardly seems relevant. We had dinner.”

“You took a beautiful woman, a professional companion, to your villa in Mexico, and all you shared with her was dinner.”

Root took her time choosing a slice of bright red apple from the platter. “I enjoy spending time with friends. Some of them are beautiful women. For intimacy, I don't employ professionals, generally—I don't find it necessary to pay for sex. Perhaps for something special.” She neatly ate the apple and took a sip of her coffee as she watched Shaw over the rim, not hiding her smile. She paused, very briefly. “Do you?”

Shaw felt her heartrate kick up, but looked back at her impassively. “We're not talking about me.”

“I was. _You_ are a beautiful woman, and we're completely alone, at least for the next fifteen minutes. Yet all we've shared is coffee and some conversation.” She smiled—smirked—at the temper smoldering in Shaw's eyes. “Noble, isn't it, how much restraint I have?”

“I'd say your relationship with Claire Hallen had a different flavor.”

“Oh, I certainly agree.” Root chose another slice of apple and one of cheese, and then courteously offered the platter to Shaw.

Appetite was a weakness, Shaw reminded herself, even as she took a couple of slices each of cheese and apple, and bit into the crisp, tart fruit first. “Did you see her after your dinner in Mexico?”

“No, I dropped her off about three a.m. and went home. Alone.”

“Can you tell me your whereabouts for the forty-eight hours after you went home—alone?”

“I was in bed for the first five of them. I took a conference call over breakfast. About eight-fifteen. You can check the records.”

“I will.”

“I have absolutely no doubt you will." Root gave her an actual grin, showing strangely-appealing slightly crooked front teeth, with a flash of full-strength charm that had Shaw's pulse skipping. The corner of her mouth then slanted with irony. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't.”

Shaw simply looked back at her. “After the conference call?”

“It ended about nine. I worked out until ten and spent the next several hours in my midtown office with various appointments.” She took out a small, slim link. “Shall I list them for you?”

“I'd prefer you to arrange to have a copy sent to my office.”

“I'll see to it. I was back home by seven. I had a dinner meeting with several members of my Japanese team in my home. We dined at eight. Shall I send you the menu?”

“Don't be snide, Root.”

“Just trying to assist as much as possible, lieutenant. It was an early evening. By eleven I was alone, with a book and a nightcap, until about seven a.m., when I had my first cup of coffee. Would you like another?” 

She would have killed for another cup of that amazing coffee, but she shook her head. “So, you were alone for eight hours, Root. Did you speak with anyone, see anyone during that time?”

“No. No one at all. My staff had the night off. I had to be in Paris the next day and wanted a quiet evening in, alone. Poor timing on my part. Then again, if I were going to murder someone, I would have been unbelievably stupid not to protect myself with an alibi.”

“Or arrogant enough not to bother,” Shaw returned, with a hint of smugness at getting her own shot in. Root only raised her eyebrows in response. “Do you just collect antique weapons, Root, or do you use them?”

“I'm an excellent shot.” Root set the empty cup aside. “I'll be happy to give you a demo when you come to see my collection. Does tomorrow suit you?”

“Fine.”

“Seven o'clock? I assume you have the address.” She leaned over towards Shaw, whose muscles all tensed at once at the proximity. She nearly growled aloud as Root's hand brushed her arm. Root only smiled, her face close, those compelling eyes looking right into hers. “I'm sorry, we need to strap in for descent,” she said, almost gently. “We'll be landing in a moment.”

Root fastened Shaw's harness herself, wondering if the cop was so disturbed by her due to attraction, or because she suspected her for murder—the irony—or a combination of both. Just then, any choice had its own interest—and its own possibilities.

The cop took a long, wary look at her as Root slid back in her seat and strapped herself into her harness.

“Shaw,” Root said slowly, as if savoring the sound of the word in her mouth. “A strong, pragmatic name. If you don't mind telling me, what is your first name?”

Shaw blinked. “Sameen,” she said. _Why the hell did I tell her that?_ She must be buzzed on too much of that seductive coffee, for chrissakes. She gazed at Root impassively, willing her not to make a big thing about it.

Root smiled back at Shaw with a slightly disturbing touch of glee over getting something personal out of her, but she made no actual comment. Shaw mentally rolled her eyes. She wasn't sure whether it was at herself, or at Root.

One more piece of business. “Have you ever been in Claire Hallen's apartment?”

The lieutenant was certainly a determined, tough operator. Despite that, though, Root felt almost certain there would be something hot and _giving_ underneath. She wondered if—no, _when_ , she would make it happen—she would have the opportunity to discover it.

“Not while she was a tenant. And not at all that I recall, though it's certainly possible.” Root smiled again, in a mildly challenging way. “I own the Gorham Complex, as I'm sure you already know.”

She idly glanced out the window as the ground came up toward them and gave a small considering hum when they touched down. “Do you have transportation at the airport, lieutenant, or may I offer you a lift?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No sizzle in this chapter, but we meet Fusco. And there's another murder.
> 
> Thanks to @[SloanGreyMercyDeath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SloanGreyMercyDeath) for awesome beta-ing!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The murder scene in the last section of this chapter is fairly gross and involves Lolita play. I've toned it down a lot from the original, though. It's not terribly gory or sexually graphic, but probably not great if you're sensitive to those themes.

Shaw was more than tired by the time she filed her report for Elias and returned home. She was _pissed_. She’d wanted, badly, to zing Root with the fact that Shaw knew she owned the Gorham. Root smugly beating her to the punch by stating the fact in the same carelessly polite tone she'd used to offer coffee to Shaw had ended their first interview with Root one point up.

Shaw didn’t like the scoreboard. It was time to even things up. Alone in her living room, and technically off the clock, she sat down in front of her large link display.

“Engage, Shaw, Code Five access. ID 6741-4AF. Open bundle 'Hallen'.”

`Voice print and ID recognized, Shaw. Proceed.`

“Open bundle 'Root'. Suspect Root is known to victim. According to Source C, Sebastian, victim desired the suspect. Suspect met her requirements for sexual partner. Possibility of emotional involvement high.

“Opportunity to commit crime. Suspect owns victim’s apartment building. Easy access and probably has knowledge of security at murder scene. Suspect has no alibi for eight-hour period on the night of the murder, which includes the time span erased from security feed. Suspect owns large collection of antique weapons, including the type used on victim. Suspect admits to expertise with firearms.

“Factor in personality of suspect. Aloof, confident, self-indulgent, highly intelligent. Interesting balance between aggressive and charming.

“Motive—”

And there she stopped. Thinking hard, she rose and paced around the room while her link awaited more input. _Why would someone like Root kill? For gain, passion?_

She didn’t think so. Wealth and status she could certainly gain by other means. Women, men, anyone—for sex and otherwise—she could get those without breaking a sweat. Although she displayed no interest in men, so far. Shaw suspected Root was capable of violence, and that she would execute it with cool precision.

Claire Hallen’s murder had been imbued with sex, sex with an abusive edge. There had been a crudeness to it. Shaw couldn’t quite reconcile that with the elegant woman she’d shared coffee with. But perhaps that was the point.

“Suspect appears to consider morality to be a solely personal code rather than something to be confined by laws,” she continued, pacing still. “Sex, weapon restrictions, drug restrictions, and murder involve moral issues that are regulated in some way. The murder of a licensed companion, the only daughter of friends, the only granddaughter of one of the country’s most outspoken and conservative legislators, by a banned weapon. Was this an illustration of the flaws the suspect considers are inherent in the legal system?”

She finally settled on a tack. “Motive: self-indulgence.” She took a deep breath. “Compute probability.”

Her link slowed, almost visibly grinding its gears, reminding her it was yet another piece of hardware that needed replacement. Eventually, it cranked out a result.

`Probability Root perpetrator given current data and conjecture: 82.6%`

Shaw leaned back in her chair. _Oh, it is possible._ Means, opportunity. And if her own arrogance could be taken into account, Root had a motive.

She studied the display, her own words, unsatisfied. _But why can’t I make it play in my head?_

She had to admit that she just couldn’t see it. She couldn’t visualize Root standing behind the camera, aiming the gun at the defenseless, naked, smiling woman, and blasting steel into her perhaps only moments after their having sex. Still, the circumstantial facts of access and acquaintance couldn’t be overlooked. If she could gather more substantial evidence, she could get a warrant for a psychiatric evaluation. She gave a half-smile. _Wouldn’t that be interesting?_

She’d take the next step at seven the following evening.

A buzz at her door made her frown in annoyance. “Save and lock on voice print, Shaw. Code Five. Disengage.”

The display went opaque as she rose to see who was interrupting her. A glance at the security screen wiped her frown away. She hit the lock disengage and the door opened.

“Hey, Fusco. Forget how to message?”

“ _You_ forgot, didn’t you?” Lionel Fusco stomped in with zero ceremony and his usual grimace at her.

“No, I didn’t.” Shaw shut the door and reengaged the locks. “Forgot what?”

“Hitting the town. Grabbing a few drinks. Sizing up the talent.” With a heavy sigh, Fusco dropped his solid form onto the couch where he could eye Shaw’s simple gray suit dubiously. “Like hell are you going out in that.”

Shaw was feeling drab enough before he opened his fat mouth. She looked down at the suit. “Yeah, thanks, I guess not.”

“So.” Fusco poked his finger at her. “You forgot.”

She had, but she was remembering now. They had made plans to check out the new club Fusco had discovered at the space docks in Jersey. According to Fusco, the space jocks—any gender—were perennially horny. Something to do with extended weightlessness.

“Yeah, you got me. Sorry.”

Fusco never changed. Eight years before, Shaw had busted him for petty theft, and he had just as much quick wit and brusque charm back then. In the intervening years, they’d somehow become friends. For Shaw, who could count on one hand the number of actual friends she had, the relationship was special, in its own way.

“You look tired,” Fusco said, more in accusation than sympathy. “And you’re missing a button.”

Shaw’s fingers went automatically to her jacket and she felt the loose threads. “Shit. I knew it.” In disgust, she shrugged out of the jacket and tossed it aside. “Look, I’m sorry. I did forget. I had a lot on my mind today.”

“Including the reason you needed my sister’s long coat?”

“Yeah, thanks. Tell her it came in handy.”

Fusco sat a minute, tapping his stubby fingers on the sofa arm. “Police business. Here I was hoping you had a date. You really need to start seeing people who aren’t criminals, Shaw.”

“I saw that musician you fixed me up with. He wasn’t a criminal. He was just a moron.”

“You’re too picky—and that was six months ago.”

Since the musical dumbass had tried to get her in the sack by offering her some actual illicit drugs—despite knowing she was a cop—Shaw thought it was not nearly long enough. But she kept her opinion to herself. “I’ll go change.” 

“Nah, you don’t want to go out and bump butts with the space babes.” Fusco stood up, grabbed his link. “But go ahead and get out of that ugly outfit. I’ll order Chinese.”

Relief had the tension draining out of Shaw’s shoulders. For Fusco, she would have tolerated an evening at a loud, crowded, obnoxious club, peeling randy pilots and sex-starved sky station techs off her chest. The idea of eating Chinese with her feet up was like heaven.

“You don’t mind?”

Fusco waved the words away as he brought up a restaurant menu on his link. “I spend every night in a club.”

“That’s work,” Shaw called out as she went into the bedroom.

“You’re telling me.” Tongue between his teeth, Fusco perused the menu on-screen. “A few years ago I’d have said telling a buncha jokes was the world’s biggest scam, the best grift I could run. Turns out I’m working harder than I ever did bilking tourists. You want egg rolls?”

“Sure. You’re not thinking of quitting, are you?”

Fusco was silent a moment as he made his selections. “Nah. I’m hooked on getting the laughs.” Feeling generous, he charged dinner to his account. “And since we renegotiated my contract so I get ten percent of the gate, I’m a regular businessman.”

“There’s nothing regular about you,” Shaw disagreed. She came back in, comfortable in black jeans and a NYPSD hoodie.

“True. Got any of that wine I brought over last time?”

“Most of the second bottle.” Because it sounded like the best idea she’d had all day, Shaw detoured into the kitchen to pour it. “So, are you still seeing the dentist?”

“Nope.” Fusco wandered idly to the entertainment unit and cued up some music. “It was getting too intense. I didn’t mind her falling in love with my teeth, but she decided to go for the whole package. She wanted to get married.”

“The bitch.”

“You can’t trust anybody,” Fusco agreed. “How’s the law and order business?”

“It’s a little intense right now.” She glanced up from the wine she was pouring when the buzzer sounded. “That can’t be dinner already.” Even as she said it, she heard Fusco clomping over to the door. “Check the security screen,” she said quickly and was halfway to the door herself when Fusco opened it.

She had one moment to curse, another to reach for the weapon she wasn’t wearing. Then Fusco’s chuckle had her adrenaline fading considerably. She recognized a delivery company uniform at the door and let herself relax further. 

“Hey, kid, you should become a comedian. Your delivery is awesome,” Fusco cracked as he tipped the messenger a few bucks.

The messenger goggled at him silently until Shaw said, “Yeah, thanks,” and closed the door, putting the poor kid out of their misery.

“You expecting a gift, Shaw?” Fusco turned to see her grim expression. “What are you looking so spooked about?” 

“The case I’m working has thrown up some weird shit. Weirder than usual.” She took the present from him, eyeing the silver foil and elaborate bow on the package more with suspicion than delight. “I don’t know who’d be sending me anything.”

“There’s a card,” Fusco pointed out dryly. “You could always read it. There might be a clue.”

“You’re a funny guy, Lionel.” Shaw tugged the card out of its black envelope.

> Root

As he read over Shaw’s shoulder, Fusco let out a low whistle. “Not _the_ Root! The enigmatic, uber rich, uber gorgeous Root? The one who owns approximately twenty-eight percent of the world and its satellites?”

All Shaw felt was irritation. “She’s the only one I know.”

“You know _her_?” Fusco raised his eyes to the ceiling. “What the fuck Shaw, you got assets I don’t know about? So spill it. What the hell has been going on with you two? Have you screwed her?”

“We’ve had a secret, passionate affair for the last three years, during which time we adopted a child who’s being raised on the far side of the moon by Buddhist monks.” Shaw's brows were knitted as she shook the box. “Get a grip, Fusco. It has to do with a case, and,” she added before Fusco could open his mouth, “it’s confidential.”

Fusco didn’t bother to protest. When Shaw said _confidential_ , no amount of cajoling, complaining or whining could budge her an inch. “Okay, but you can tell me if she looks as good in person as she does on the feeds.”

“Better,” Shaw muttered.

“Jesus, really? Holy shit.” Fusco settled himself on the couch, shaking his head.

Shaw set the package down on the table and scowled at it. “How the hell did she know where I live? You can’t pluck a cop’s address out of any public directory.” Her face stilled. “How _did_ she know?” she repeated quietly. “And what is she up to?”

“For chrissakes, Shaw, open it. She might even have liked you. Some people who aren’t me find the cool, disinterested, and stone-faced attractive. Makes them think you’re deep.”

Shaw rolled her eyes at Fusco, and he made a successful grab for the box that she was a millisecond too slow to intercept. He ripped off the pricey paper, tossed aside the lid of the box, and plunged his brawny hand through the silver-edged tissue. “What the hell is this?”

But Shaw had already scented it, had already—despite herself—begun to smile. “It’s coffee,” she murmured, unaware of the way her voice changed as she reached for the simple brown bag Fusco held.

“Coffee.” His illusions shattered, Fusco stared at the bag. “The woman’s got more money than God, and she sends you a bag of coffee?”

“Real coffee.”

“Oh, well then, that changes everything.” In disgust, Fusco waved a hand. “I don’t care what the stuff costs a gram, Shaw. Ms. Fancypants should know that when you’re trying to catch someone’s eye, you wanna give 'em something showy.”

Shaw brought the bag to her face and sniffed deep. “Not this someone. But she’s slick—she knew just how to get to me.” She pursed her lips slightly. “In more ways than one.”

* * *

Shaw treated herself to one precious cup of Root’s delicious coffee the next morning. Even her temperamental AutoChef hadn’t been able to spoil the dark, rich flavor. She drove to the station, with her faulty heater, under sleeting skies, in a miserable chill that came in just under minus 15 Celsius, with a lingering smile on her face.

It was still there when she strode into her office and found Finch waiting for her.

“Well, Shaw, you seem unusually cheerful.” He studied her with a slightly owlish expression. “Did you have something different for breakfast?”

“Nothing but coffee. Just coffee.” Shaw gave Finch a broad—and slightly scary—grin, making his eyebrows go up. “Got anything for me?”

“Ran a full check on Graham Hallen, Connie Wyler, and the rest of the clan. I’m sending you the details, locked to Code Five.” Shaw nodded. “No real surprises. Nothing much out of the ordinary on Bannerman, either. In his twenties, he belonged to a paramilitary group known as SafeNet.”

“SafeNet,” Shaw repeated, brow wrinkling.

“You’d have been about eight when it was disbanded,” Finch told her blandly. “But you should have heard of it in your history lessons.”

“Rings a distant bell. Was that one of the groups that got worked up when we had that skirmish with China?”

“It was, and if they’d had their way, it would have been a lot more than a skirmish. A disagreement over international space could have gotten ugly. But the diplomats managed to fight that war before they could. Few years later, they were disbanded, though there are rumors on and off about a faction of SafeNet going underground.”

“I’ve heard of them. Still hear about them. You think Bannerman’s involved with a fanatic splinter group like that?” 

Finch paused a moment and shook his head. “I think he watches his step. Power reflects power, and Hallen has plenty. If he ever gets into the White House, Bannerman would be right beside him.”

“Please.” Shaw made an exaggerated _ick_ face. “You’ll make me puke.”

“It’s a long shot, but he’s got some backing for the next election.” Finch gave a small grimace.

“Bannerman’s alibied, anyway. By Hallen. They were in East Washington.” She sat. “Anything else?”

“Tomas Koroa. He’s had an interesting life, but nothing shady that shows. I’m working on the victim’s logs. If you’re careless altering files, often traces are left behind. I’m hoping that someone who kills a woman seemingly at random could get careless.”

“You find a trace, Finch, give us a direction, and I’ll buy you a bottle of decent whisky for a change.”

“If you can manage it, Shaw,” he said, with a small dash of irony. “I’m still working on Root, though. That is someone who is very, very cautious with their infosec. Every time my meta-analysis tool overcomes one wall of security, we hit another. Whatever data there is on her is well guarded.”

“Keep scaling those walls. I’ll try digging under them.”

When Finch left, Shaw shifted to her link. She hadn’t wanted to check at home while Fusco was there, and preferred, in this case, using her office unit.

The question itself was simple. She entered the name and address of her apartment complex. Asked: _Owner?_

And so the answer was simple: `Thornhill Industries. CEO: Root. `

* * *

Lola Starr’s license for sex was only three months old. She’d applied for it on her eighteenth birthday, the earliest possible date. She liked to tell her friends she’d been an amateur until then. It was the same day she’d left her home in Toledo, the same day she’d changed her name from Alice Williams. Both home and name had been far too boring for Lola.

She had a cute, pixie face. She’d nagged and begged and wept until her parents had agreed to buy her a more pointed chin and a tip-tilted nose for her sixteenth birthday. Lola had wanted to look like a sexy elf and thought she’d succeeded. Her hair was a dark turquoise, cut in short, sassy spikes. Her skin was milk white and firm. She was saving money to get a few touches and tweaks to her looks, but she’d been lucky enough to have been born with a lush little body that needed no more than basic maintenance. 

She’d wanted to be a licensed companion all of her life. Others might have dreamed of a go-getting career, studied hard for some profession. But Lola had always known she was born for something creative. Something with sex. And why not make a living from what you did best?

She wanted to be rich and desired and pampered. The desire part she found easy. Men, particularly older men, were willing to pay well for someone with Lola’s attributes. But the expenses of her profession were more stringent than she’d anticipated when she was spinning her dreams back in Toledo.

The licensing fees, healthcare, rent, and sin tax all ate into profits. Once she’d finished paying for her training, she’d only had enough left to afford a small, one-room apartment at the ragged edges of Whore’s Walk.

Still, it was better than working the streets as many still did. And Lola had plans for bigger and better things. One day she’d live in a penthouse and take only the cream of clients. She’d be wined and dined in the best restaurants, jetted to exotic places to entertain royalty and wealth.

The tips helped. A professional wasn’t supposed to accept cash or credit bonuses. Not technically. But everyone did. She was still girl enough to prefer the pretty little gifts some of her clients offered. But she banked the money religiously and dreamed of her penthouse.

Tonight, she was going to entertain a new client, someone who requested they only be called _Teacher_. While setting up the date, she’d readily agreed, and had waited until the call was terminated she allowed herself a smirk. This was far from the first time she was a bad little girl for a client.

Easy enough: she’d sit on Teacher’s lap when she was good and get spanked when she was bad, admitting solemnly and with tears that she needed to be punished. Really, it was like playing a game, and most of the clients were kind of sweet.

With that in mind, she chose a flirty skirted dress with a scalloped white collar. Beneath she wore nothing but white stockings. She carefully inspected herself in the mirror and added a bit more color to her cheeks and clear gloss on her pouty lips.

At the knock on the door she grinned, and her young and still-guileless face grinned back from the reflection. She couldn’t yet afford video security, and used the peephole to check her visitor. Teacher was good-looking, which was nice. And older than her, but that was expected.

She opened the door, aimed a shy, coy smile. “Hello, Teacher.”

“Hello, Lola,” Teacher said and walked into the middle of the room. “I’ve come to do an inspection. Come over here.” 

Lola closed the door and walked over as bashfully as she could manage.

Teacher didn’t want to waste time—it was something that they had very little of— and reached under Lola’s skirt. It was pleasing to find her naked already. It would speed matters along nicely.

“Teacher!” Playing her part, Lola let out a shrieking giggle. “That’s naughty.”

“Yes, but I’ve heard _you’ve_ been particularly naughty.” Teacher’s coat was put aside; all exposed body parts had already been sealed for what was to come next.

“No, I’ve been good, Teacher. Very good.”

“That’s not true. I know you’ve been naughty, little girl.” Teacher took out and set out a small camera, aimed toward the narrow bed she’d piled with pillows and stuffed animals.

“Are you going to take pictures?”

“That’s right.”

She’d have to tell Teacher there would be an extra cost, but decided to wait until the deed was done. Clients didn’t care to have their fantasies interfered with by reality. She’d learned that in training.

“Go lie down on the bed.”

“Yes, Teacher.” She lay among the pillows and grinning animals.

“I’ve heard you’ve been touching yourself instead of doing your lessons.”

“No, Teacher.”

“It isn’t good to tell lies to your Teacher, and this is the second time. I have to punish you, but then I’ll kiss it and make it better.” When she smiled, Teacher walked over and sat on the bed. “Lift your skirt, little girl, and show me how you touched yourself.”

Lola didn’t care for this part. She liked being touched, but the feel of her own hands brought her little excitement. Still, she did her job.

“This feels nice,” she murmured. “You touch, Teacher. Feel this.”

Teacher laid a hand over hers, reached further as she responded to the touch. It would be quick, at least.

“Unbutton your dress. Turn over.”

Teacher spanked her as she whined and leaked a few tears. It didn’t really matter if she got hurt or not. She’d already sold herself to anyone who paid.

“That’s a good girl. Teacher’s going to show you how good girls are rewarded.”

Teacher was initially rougher than either of them expected, too excited. Calming down, exercising restraint would make it last longer. And avoid hurting her to the point where she would cry out. Though in a place such as this, it was doubtful anyone would notice or care.

Still, she was rather charmingly unskilled and naive. And enthusiastic, given her occupation. The sex itself was satisfying, for both of them, gratifyingly so.

Lola sighed afterwards and cuddled into one of the pillows. It had been good, much, much better than she’d expected. And she hoped she’d found another regular.

“Was I a good girl, Teacher?”

“A very, very good girl. But we’re not done. Roll over.”

As she shifted, Teacher rose and moved out of camera range. “Are we going to watch the video?”

“I’m sorry, not right now.”

Remembering her role, she pouted. “I like videos. We can watch, and then you can show me how to be a good girl again.” She smiled, hoping for a bonus. “You could show me other things that are good, give me proper lessons.”

Teacher smiled and took out the SIG 210 with silencer. Lola blinked in curiosity as Teacher aimed the gun.

“What’s that? Is it a toy for me to play with?”

Teacher shot her first in the head, the weapon barely making more than a pop as she jerked back. Then coolly shot again into the middle of her chest, and finally, as the silencer eroded, between her legs.

Switching the camera off, Teacher arranged Lola carefully among the blood-soaked pillows and soiled animals with their fixed grins, while she stared up in wide-eyed surprise.

“It was no life for a young girl, but you've learned your lesson now,” Teacher told her gently, then went back to the camera to record the last scene. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No murders, but some explosive stuff. And some sizzle, of more than one kind.
> 
> More bounteous beta-ing from @[SloanGreyMercyDeath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SloanGreyMercyDeath). USians to be grateful for the spelling; everyone to be grateful for the sanity checking!

All Shaw wanted was a hot pastrami sandwich. She’d spent most of the day testifying for a case that finally made it in front of the judge after months of stalling from the defense attorneys. Then her lunch break had been eaten up by a call from a snitch that had cost her fifty dollars but gained her a slim lead on a smuggling case that had resulted in two homicides, which she’d been beating her head against for two months.

After finally escaping the courtroom, she was ravenous, and the only thing on her mind was the vision of those tasty slices of pastrami—spiced up with plenty of hot mustard and pepperoncinis—that she would soon be gulping down as she headed home to prep for her seven o’clock meeting with Root.

She could have zipped through any number of drive-through InstaStores, but she preferred the little deli on the corner of West 78th—despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that it was owned and run by Mrs. Park, a rude, perma-scowling refugee who’d fled to America after the Social Reform Army had overthrown the North Korean government some forty years before. Mrs. Park hated New York, but she had remained all the intervening years, raising her family, bitching and complaining behind the counter of her deli, where she enjoyed dispensing sneering not-quite-insults and political absurdities.

Shaw’s mind was firmly on the deliciousness that was shortly to hit her ravenous stomach as she stepped through the deli entrance. The door had no more than begun to gently close behind her when instinct kicked in.

The man standing at the counter had his back to her, his heavy, hooded jacket masking all but his size, and that was impressive. 1.90 m tall, she estimated, easily 115 kilos. She didn’t need to see Mrs. Park’s terrified face to know there was trouble. She could smell it, strong as the veggie hash that was today’s special. In the seconds it took the door to fully shut, she’d considered and rejected the idea of drawing her weapon.

“Over here, bitch. Now.”

The man turned. Shaw saw he had a pale gold complexion, black hair, and the eyes of a very desperate man. Even as she filed the description mentally, she looked at the small round object he held in his hand.

The homemade explosive device was worrying enough. The fact that it shook as the hand that held it trembled with nerves was a great deal worse. Homemade boomers were notoriously unstable. The idiot was likely to kill all of them by sweating too freely.

She shot Mrs. Park a quick, warning look. If she called Shaw _lieutenant_ , they were all going to be shredded meat very quickly. Keeping her hands in plain sight, she crossed to the counter.

“I don’t want any trouble,” she said, keeping her head down, letting her voice tremble nervously. “Please, I got kids at home.”

“Shut up. Just shut up. Down on the floor. Down on the fucking floor.”

Shaw knelt, slipping a hand under her coat where the weapon waited.

“All of it,” the man ordered, gesturing with the deadly little ball. “I want all of it. Cash, credit tokens. Make it fast.”

“It’s been a slow day,” Mrs. Park whined. “You must understand business is not what it was. You Americans—”

“You want to eat this?” the man invited, shoving the explosive in Mrs. Park’s face.

“No, no.” Panicked, Mrs. Park punched in the security code with her shaking fingers. As the till opened, Shaw saw the thief glance at the money inside, then up at the camera that was busily recording the entire transaction.

She saw it in his face. He knew his image was locked there, and that all the money in New York wouldn’t erase it. The explosive would, though, tossed carelessly over his shoulder as he raced out to the street to be swallowed in traffic,

She sucked in a breath, like a diver going under. She came up hard, under his arm. The solid jolt had the device flying free. Screams and yelling all around. She caught it in her fingertips, her body stretched out to its full extent, a high fly deep in the outfield, all bases loaded, the entire game on the line. Even as she closed her hand around it, the would-be robber swung a beefy arm out towards her.

It was the back of his hand that connected rather than a fist, and Shaw considered herself lucky. She saw stars as she hit a stand of soy chips, but she held onto the homemade boomer.

 _Wrong hand, goddammit, wrong hand_ , she had time to think as the stand collapsed under her. She tried to use her left to free her weapon, but the 115 kilos of fury fell onto her.

“Hit the alarm, you asshole,” she shouted as Mrs. Park stood like a statue with her mouth opening and closing. “Hit the fucking alarm.” Then she grunted as the blow to her ribs stole her breath. This time, he’d used his fist.

He was weeping now, scratching and clawing up her arm in an attempt to reach the explosive. “I need the money. I got to have it. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you all.”

She managed to bring her knee up between his legs. The age-old defense bought her a few seconds, but lacked the power to debilitate. She saw stars again as her head smacked sharply into the side of a counter. Dozens of candy bars rained down over her.

“You son of a bitch. You son of a bitch.” She heard herself saying it, over and over as she landed three hard short-arm punches to his face. Blood spurting from his nose, he grabbed her arm.

She knew it was going to break. Knew she would feel that sharp, sweet pain, hear the thin crack as bone fractured. But just as she drew in breath to cry out, as her vision began to gray with agony, his weight was off her. The ball still cupped in her hand, she rolled over onto her haunches, struggling to breathe and fighting the need to retch. From that position, she saw the shiny black shoes that always said beat cop.

“Book him.” She coughed once, painfully. “Attempted robbery, armed, carrying an explosive, assault.” She’d have liked to have added assaulting an officer and resisting arrest, but as she hadn’t identified herself, she’d be skirting the line.

“You all right, ma’am? Want the MTs?”

She didn’t want the medtechs. She wanted a fucking sandwich. “Lieutenant,” she corrected, pushing herself up and reaching for her ID. She noted that the perp was in restraints and that one of the two cops had been wise enough to use their stunner to take the fight out of him.

“We need a safe box—quick.” She watched both cops pale as they saw what she held in her hand. “This little boomer’s had quite a ride. Let’s get it neutralized.”

“Sir.” The first cop was out of the store in a flash. In the ninety seconds it took her to return with the black box used for transporting and deactivating explosives, no one spoke. They hardly breathed.

The moment the explosive was contained, Shaw’s body shivered briefly in reaction. “Book him,” she repeated. “I’ll transmit my report. You guys with the 123rd?”

“You bet, lieutenant.”

“Good job.” No time for the goddamned sandwich now. She reached down, favoring her injured arm, and grabbed a Galaxy bar that hadn’t been flattened by the wrestling match. “I’m going home.”

“You didn’t pay for that,” Mrs. Park yelled after her.

“Fuck you, Park,” she shouted back and kept going.

* * *

The incident had put her behind schedule. By the time she reached Root’s mansion, it was 7:10. She’d used over-the-counter medication to ease the pain in her arm and shoulder. If it wasn’t better in a couple of days, she knew she’d have to go in for an exam. She hated going to the med clinic, hated her body being fussed over. Hated not being in control of what was being done to it.

She parked the vehicle and spent a moment studying Root’s house. Fortress, more like. Its narrow four stories towered over the frosted trees of Central Park. It was one of the old buildings, close to two hundred years old, built of actual stone, if her eyes didn’t deceive her Golden light shone from behind the many large windows. There was also a security gate, behind which an expansive garden filled with trees and shrubs and all kinds of plants that she didn't know the names of.

Even more impressive than the magnificence of the architecture and landscaping was the quiet. She heard no city noises here. No traffic rumble, no pedestrian chaos. Even the sky overhead was subtly different than the one she was accustomed to farther downtown. Here, you could actually see stars rather than the glint and gleam of transports.

 _Nice life, if you can get it._ She started her vehicle again and approached the gate, prepared to identify herself. She saw the tiny red eye of a scanner blink, then hold steady. The gates opened soundlessly.

 _So, Root’s linked my ID for the entry._ Shaw was unsure if she was amused or uneasy. It was an unusual level of courtesy for just a one-off visit. She was pretty certain it wasn’t just “courtesy”. She went through the gate, up the short drive, and left her vehicle at the base of granite steps.

A butler opened the door for her. She’d never actually seen a butler outside of old videos, but this one looked a little outside the norm. He was a large man with hands like hams, flat-eyed, and dressed in a dark suit and tie.

“Lieutenant Shaw.”

“I have an appointment with Root.”

“She’s been expecting you.” With a completely blank expression, he ushered her into a wide, high-ceilinged hallway and through to the main part of the house.

There was a chandelier of ornately shaped glass throwing splashes of light around the generously proportioned foyer. A boldly patterned rug covered the floor in shades of deep plum and black, while a stairway curved away to the left with a carved griffin for its newel post. There was a well-curated selection of good art throughout, physical, digital and light-based.

“May I take your coat?”

She brought herself back and thought she caught a flicker of smug condescension in the butler’s keen eyes. Shaw shrugged out of her pea coat and watched him take the wool somewhat gingerly between his large fingers. Hell, she’d gotten most of the blood off it.

“This way, Lieutenant Shaw. If you wouldn’t mind waiting in the parlor, Root is detained on a transpacific call.”

“No problem.”

The luxurious surroundings continued there. A fire was burning steadily in the fireplace. A fire that burned genuine wooden logs in a hearth carved from lapis and malachite. Two lamps glowed with soft light, forming slowly-moving shapes in shades that complemented the decor. The twin sofas looked both stylish and comfortable, as did all of the room, albeit with some odd decorative elements. There appeared to be a black, oddly-shaped stuffed creature on a bookshelf that contained many physical books. There was more art on the walls and on various surfaces, some of which, on closer look, was subtly adult in theme.

Shaw shifted her eyes from a black-and-white photo of two women wearing only dancing shoes in a Latin dance pose as she entered the room.

“Would you like some refreshment, lieutenant?”

She glanced back and saw with amusement that he continued to hold her coat between his fingers like a soiled rag. “Sure. What have you got, Mr.—?”

“Hersh, lieutenant. Just Hersh, and I’m sure we can provide you with whatever suits your taste.”

“She’s fond of coffee,” Root said from the doorway, “but I think she’d like to try the Montcart ‘49.”

She was wearing form-fitting black pants that showed off every centimeter of her long legs, a deep red silk shirt, and a black, unconstructed linen jacket. Her hair was loose and flowed over her shoulders, and she gave Shaw a slightly ironic smile as she came into the room.

Hersh’s eyes flickered again, as if in doubt. “The ‘49, Root?”

“That’s right. Thank you, Hersh.”

“Yes, of course.” Dangling the coat, he exited, stiff-spined.

“Sorry I kept you waiting,” Root began, then her eyes narrowed and a wrinkle appeared on her forehead.

“No problem,” Shaw said as she crossed to her. “I was just… Hey—”

She jerked her chin as Root’s hand cupped it, but her fingers held firm, turning Shaw’s left cheek to the light. “Your face is bruised.” Her voice was cool on the statement, almost indifferent-sounding. Her eyes flicked over the injury, betraying nothing.

But her fingers were warm, tensed, and jolted something in Shaw’s gut. “A scuffle over a deli sandwich,” she said with a shrug.

Root’s sepia-colored eyes met hers and held just an instant longer than comfortable. “Who won?”

“I did. It’s a mistake to come between me and food.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Root released her and dipped the hand that had touched Shaw into her pocket. She could not rationalise what she just did, nor how much she wanted to touch Shaw again. She shook it off and kept the conversation moving. “I think you’ll enjoy tonight’s menu.”

“Menu? I didn’t come here to eat, Root. I came here to look over your collection.”

“Embrace the power of ‘both’, lieutenant.” She turned when Hersh brought in a tray that held an opened bottle of amber-colored wine and two crystal glasses.

“The ‘49, Root.”

“Thank you. I’ll pour out.” She spoke to Shaw as she did so. “I thought this vintage would suit you. What it lacks in subtlety…” Root turned back, offering her a glass. “It makes up for in appeal.” She tapped her glass against Shaw’s so the crystal sang, then watched as she sipped.

 _God, what a face._ All those angles and expressions, the subtle emotion way down beneath the control. Root could see how she was fighting off showing both surprise and pleasure as the taste of the wine settled on her tongue.

“Do you like it?” Root asked, with an unsubtle smile.

“It’s good.” It was the equivalent of sipping gold. Shaw decided to forget about Root’s taunting remark, for now.

“I’m so glad. The Montcart was my first venture into wineries. Shall we sit and enjoy the fire?”

It was tempting. Shaw could almost see herself sitting there, legs angled toward the fragrant heat, sipping wine as the firelight danced.

“This isn’t a social call, Root. It’s a murder investigation.”

“Then you can investigate me over dinner.”

Shaw couldn’t help herself; she snorted and rolled her eyes.

Root gave her an ironically-demure smile and took her arm, lifting her brows as Shaw stiffened. “I expect a woman who’d fight for a deli sandwich would appreciate a two-inch fillet, medium rare.”

“Steak?” Shaw struggled not to drool. “Real steak, from a cow?”

Root's smile became smug. “Just flown in from Montana. The steak, not the cow.” When Shaw continued to hesitate, Root tossed her head a little, her hair shifting around her collarbones in the light from the fire. “Now, lieutenant, I doubt if a little red meat will affect your thorough investigative skills.”

“Someone tried to bribe me the other day,” Shaw muttered, thinking of Tomas Koroa and his black silk robe.

“With?”

“Nothing as interesting as steak.” She aimed a long, level look. “If the evidence points in your direction, Root, I’m still bringing you down.”

“I’d expect nothing less. Let’s eat.”

She led Shaw into the dining room. More crystal, classy furniture, yet another glowing fire, this time set in a white-veined black marble fireplace. Hersh served them appetizers of shrimp swimming in an aromatic sauce. The wine was brought in and their glasses topped off. Shaw, who rarely gave a thought to her appearance, wished briefly that she’d worn something more suitable to the occasion than black jeans and a black knit hoodie.

“So, how’d you get rich?” she asked Root. _Fuck the polite small talk._

“In various ways.” Root liked to watch Shaw eat, she discovered. There was a single-mindedness to it.

“Name one.”

“Focus,” she said. “Although the money was really a side effect of my success with my actual work.”

“I’m sure the money doesn’t hurt.” Shaw picked up her wine again, meeting Root’s eyes directly.

“It certainly doesn’t. Being poor is… uncomfortable. I’ve learned I like comfort.” She gave a light chuckle and offered Shaw a roll from a fine wooden bowl as their salads were served—crisp greens tossed with delicate herbs. “We’re not so different, Sameen.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You wanted to be a cop enough to fight for it. To take risks for it. My early career was highly risky and I fought to get into it. And fought to get it into a better place. A good part of my business now is in security, information and physical. You want society to be more secure. I want to make tangible things better. You want to make justice better.” She waited a moment. “Do you know what Claire Hallen wanted?”

Shaw’s fork hesitated, then pierced a tender shoot of endive that had been plucked only an hour before. “What do you think she wanted?”

“Power. Sex is one way to gain it. She had enough money to be comfortable, but she wanted more. Because money is also power. She wanted power over her clients, over herself, and most of all, she wanted power over her family.”

Shaw set her fork down. In the firelight, the dancing glow of candle and crystal, Root looked dangerous. Not because someone would fear her, but because of her charm, her attractiveness, pulling you in until it was too late. The light from the fire lent a warm glow to her cheek and the small, knowing smile on her lips. But it didn't quite reach the shadows that played in her eyes, making them unreadable.

“That’s quite an analysis of a woman you claim you hardly knew.”

“It doesn’t take long to form an opinion, particularly if that person is obvious. She didn’t have your depth, Shaw, your control, or your focus.”

“We’re not talking about me.” No, she didn’t want Root to talk about her—or to look at her in quite that way. “Your opinion is that she was hungry for power. Hungry enough to be killed before she could take too big a bite?”

“An interesting theory. The question would be, too big a bite of what? Or whom?”

Hersh cleared the salads and brought in oversize china plates heavy with sizzling meat and thin, golden slices of grilled potatoes.

Shaw waited until they were alone again, then cut into her steak. The heady smell rose to her nostrils as she raised a bite to her mouth. The first taste had her closing her eyes in pleasure as she chewed, the tender meat melting away into savoury deliciousness on her tongue. It was literally the best thing she’d ever tasted. She opened her eyes again to see Root watching her in fascination, not yet having taken a bite of her own food.

Shaw took another leisurely sip of the wine to compose herself. “You should eat up, Root,” she said, straightfaced. “You’re looking pretty hungry over there. The steak seems fine to me.”

Root compressed her lips and snorted slightly, but thankfully picked up her own silverware without comment and began to eat. Shaw gave them both a few minutes to enjoy the food before she started.

“So, Root. It seems to me when someone accumulates a great deal of money, possessions, and status, she then has a great deal to lose.”

“Now we’re talking about me—and another interesting theory you’ve developed.” Root sat there, her eyes interested, yet still amused. “She threatened me with some sort of blackmail and, rather than pay or dismiss her as ridiculous, I killed her. Did I sleep with her first?”

“You tell me,” Shaw said coolly.

“It would fit the scenario, considering her choice of profession. There may be a blackout on the press on this particular case, but it takes little deductive power to conclude sex was in the mix somehow. I had sex with her, then I shot her… if one believes the theory.” She took a bite of steak, chewed, swallowed. “There is a problem, however.”

“Which is?”

“I don’t like brutality, murder, for no purpose. It’s distasteful.”

“So you’re fine with it if it has a purpose?”

Root merely looked at her. “There’s no point in causing harm that you get no benefit out of. Did your little scuffle earlier have any benefit for the offender?”

She surprised Shaw by reaching out and running a finger down the bruise on her cheek, very gently.

“I would have found it more than distasteful to kill Claire Hallen.” Root let her hand fall away and went back to her meal. “Although there have been times when I’ve had to do something I disliked. When necessary. How is your dinner?”

“It’s fine.” The room, the light, the food, was all more than fine. It was like sitting in another world, in another time. “Who the hell are you, Root?”

She smiled and topped off their glasses. “You’re the cop. Figure it out.”

 _I will. By God, I will before it’s all done._ Shaw had no doubt she would get to the bottom of the woman eventually. “What other theories do you have about Claire Hallen?”

“None to speak of. She liked excitement and risk and didn’t flinch from causing those who loved her embarrassment. Yet she was…”

Intrigued, Shaw leaned closer. “What? Go ahead, finish.”

“Pitiable,” she said, in a tone that made Shaw believe she meant exactly that. “There was something sad about her under all that bright surface. Her body was the only thing about herself she respected. So she used it to give pleasure and to cause pain.”

“And did she offer it to you?”

“Naturally, and she assumed I’d accept the invitation.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I’ve already explained that, I’m pretty sure. But to elaborate more, I prefer a different type of bedmate, and I prefer to make my own moves.”

There was more, but Root chose to keep it to herself.

“Would you like more steak, lieutenant?”

Shaw glanced down, saw that she’d all but eaten the pattern off the plate. “No. Thanks.”

“Dessert?”

She hated to turn it down, but she’d already indulged herself enough. “No. I want to look at your collection.”

“Then we’ll save the coffee and dessert for later.” Root rose, offering her a hand.

Shaw merely frowned at it and pushed back from the table. Amused, Root gestured toward the doorway and led her back into the hall, up the curving stairs.

“It’s a lot of house for one person.”

“Do you think so? I’m more of the opinion that your apartment is too small for one woman.” When Shaw stopped dead at the top of the stairs, Root grinned. “Shaw, you know I own the building. You’d have checked after I sent my little token.”

“You ought to have someone out to look at the plumbing,” Shaw told her. “I can’t keep the water hot in the shower for more than ten minutes.”

“I’ll make a note. Next flight up.”

“I’m surprised you don’t have elevators,” Shaw commented as they climbed again.

“I do. Just because I prefer the stairs doesn’t mean the staff shouldn’t have a choice.”

“And staff,” she continued. “I haven’t seen one domestic droid in the place.”

“I have a few. But they mostly operate where humans aren't present, so they don't need to adjust their task patterns around live bodies. Here we are.”

Root used a bio scanner, coded in a key, then opened a set of large double doors. The lights came on as they crossed the threshold. Whatever Shaw had been expecting, it hadn’t been this.

It was a museum of weapons: guns, knives, daggers, crossbows. And other devices: manacles, pincers, leather straps, sjamboks, judicial canes, even a Chinese fingertrap. An assemblage of violent tools from all manner of cultures and times. If the rest of the house seemed from another world, a classier one than Shaw knew, this veered way off in the other direction. Into an homage to violence.

Shaw eyed Root with some speculation. “Jesus,” she said. “You have to be a special kind of nerd to collect all this stuff. Why?”

Root laughed. “You’re right, I am a nerd. In this instance, about what humans have used to damage other humans—exact leverage over other humans—throughout history.” She crossed over to the rear wall, touching a set of two curved daggers in metal sheaths hanging there. “The Assassins’ sect used weapons like these for hundreds of years to conquer fortresses from the inside and dispatch their enemies, all over medieval Syria and Persia.” Shaw twitched a little at the last.

Root opened an adjacent display cabinet and took out a sleek, palm-sized weapon, the preferred killing tool of twenty-first century street gangs during the Urban Revolt. “And now we have less cumbersome and equally lethal—if necessary—tools. Easier to use. Cleaner. Better? I think it depends.”

Shaw was struck by the juxtaposition—the graceful woman handling these lethal implements as if they were crafting tools. Familiar. Delighted.

Root put the weapon back, closing and securing the case. “But you’re interested in something newer than the first, and older than the second. You said a .38 Smith & Wesson. Model 10.”

It was an intimidating room, Shaw thought. But fascinating. She stared at Root across it, recognising that the elegant violence suited her perfectly.

“It must have taken years to collect all of this.”

“Fifteen,” Root said as she walked across the uncarpeted floor to another section. “Nearly sixteen now. This”—she pointed—“was my very first handgun. Acquired when I was nineteen—from the man who was aiming it at my head.”

Root frowned at herself. She hadn’t meant to tell Shaw that.

“I guess he missed,” Shaw commented as she joined her.

“Fortunately, he was distracted by my taser in his neck. It’s a 9mm Beretta semiautomatic that he’d smuggled out of Germany. I had been hired by his business partners to discourage him from a series of cargo thefts. It should have been routine, but as it turned out, I had to get a lot closer to him than I was accustomed to. He got the drop on me.” She pouted a little, then smirked. “But I recovered the situation with that lucky bit of extra planning. Once he was out of the picture, my employers weren’t really interested in recovering the actual cargo. Sunk costs, maybe. In the end, I had their fee, the cargo, and the Beretta. And so Thornhill Industries was born out of his poor judgment in getting too close to _me_.

“That’s the one you’re interested in,” she added, pointing as the wall display opened. “You’ll want to take it, I imagine, to see if it’s been fired recently, check for prints, and so forth.”

Shaw filed Root’s story away in the back of her brain to digest later, and nodded slowly while her mind worked. Only four people knew the murder weapon had been left at the scene. Herself, Finch, the commander, and the killer. Root was either innocent or very, very crafty.

She wondered if Root could be both.

“I appreciate your cooperation.” She took an evidence seal out of her shoulder bag and reached toward the weapon that matched the one in police possession, recalling just in time she didn’t want to reveal that they already had it. It took her only a heartbeat more to realize Root hadn’t precisely indicated which model it was out of a row of similar guns.

Shaw’s eyes slid to Root’s, and held. Oh, Root was watching her all right, carefully. Although Shaw let her hand hesitate now over her selection, she thought they understood each other. “Which gun is it?”

“This one.” Now Root tapped the display just under the .38. Once Shaw had sealed the gun and slipped it into her bag, she closed the glass. “It’s not loaded, of course, but I do have ammo, if you’d like to take a sample.”

“Thanks. Your cooperation will be noted in my report.”

“Will it?” Root gave a one-sided smile, took a box out of a drawer, and offered it. “What else will be noted, lieutenant?”

“Whatever is applicable.” Shaw added the box of ammo to her bag, took out her link, rapidly entered the evidence form details, and said, “Ready to send your receipt.” Root took her own link out of a pocket, accepted the transfer, and gave an acknowledging nod as the receipt arrived. “These will be returned to you as quickly as possible unless they’re called into evidence," said Shaw formally. "You’ll be notified one way or the other.”

Root tucked the link back into her pocket and fingered what else she’d tucked there. “The music room is in the next wing. We can have coffee and whisky, or brandy, whichever you prefer.”

“I doubt we’d share the same taste in music, Root.”

“You might be surprised,” Root murmured, “at what we share.” She touched Shaw’s bruised cheek again, this time sliding her hand around until it cupped the back of her neck.

By reflex, Shaw shot out her hand and grabbed Root’s throat. Root simply leaned into the hold, with a slight but audible gasp, and closed her fingers over Shaw’s wrist, without the slightest attempt to pull her hand away. Shaw could have Root flat on her back in a heartbeat—she knew it. Still, she only stood there, with the firm grip of her hand on Root’s warm neck and her own pulse throbbing hard in her body.

Root wasn’t smiling now.

“You’re not a coward, Sameen.” Root said it as she leaned closer, Shaw’s hand on her throat moving with her, until her lips almost touched Shaw’s. The kiss hovered there, a breath away, until Shaw released her hold on Root's neck. She slid her hand to Root’s shoulder and moved into her.

She didn’t think. If she had, even for an instant, she’d have had to acknowledge she was breaking all the rules. But she wanted. Wanted to _know_.

Root’s mouth was soft at first, persuasive, then insistent. Her tongue skilful in Shaw’s mouth, taking possession of it. Shaw let out a small sound of capitulation as she let herself go under, her mind entirely submerged beneath a rush of sensation.

Heat gathered deep in Shaw’s belly even before Root touched her, long hands molding over the denim that clung to her ass, slipping seductively under her hoodie to find bare flesh. Root’s teeth bit down firmly on her lower lip and she deepened the kiss, pulling Shaw in. With a kind of edgy delight, Shaw felt herself get wet. Ready.

Root had thought it was the mouth that she had wanted, just that generous and tempting mouth. But the moment she’d tasted it, felt Shaw _give_ beneath her teeth, she’d hurtled directly to wanting all of her. _Everything._

Shaw was pressed against her thigh, both hands gripping Root’s ass; that fine, muscular body beginning to quiver, her full breast weighing deliciously in Root’s palm. She could hear the hum of passion that sounded in her throat, all but taste it as Shaw’s mouth moved eagerly beneath hers. Root was teetering on the line of patience and control she’d taught herself over the years and she wanted to just _take_. The violence of that need was becoming overwhelming. _Take, here and now._

Root would have dragged her to the nearest flat surface—the floor, even—if Shaw hadn’t abruptly pushed back out of Root’s embrace, flushed and panting hard.

“This isn’t going to happen.”

“The hell it isn’t,” Root shot back.

There was a dangerous, feral air around her now. Shaw saw it as clearly as she saw the tools of violence that surrounded them. “Some of us aren’t allowed to indulge ourselves.”

“Fuck the rules, Shaw.”

Root stepped toward her. If she had stepped back, Root would have pursued, like any hunter after their quarry. But Shaw faced her squarely, and shook her head.

“I can’t compromise a murder investigation because I’m physically attracted to a suspect.”

“Dammit, _I didn’t kill her_ , Shaw! No games now.”

It was a shock to see Root’s control snap. To hear the frustration in her voice, to witness it wash vividly across her face, see her cheeks flush up with anger and bitterness. And it was terrifying for Shaw to realize that she believed her, and to not be sure, not be absolutely certain, if she believed only because she wanted to.

“It’s not as simple as taking your word for it. I have a job to do, a responsibility to the victim, to the system. I have to stay objective, and I—”

_Can’t._

They stared at each other as the link in her bag began to beep. Shaw shook her head as she turned away and took the unit out. She recognized the code for the station on the display and touched her thumb to the sensor. After a deep breath, she answered the request for voice verification.

“Shaw, Lieutenant Sameen. No audio, display only.”

Root could just see her profile as she read the transmission. It was enough to measure the change in her eyes, the way they darkened, then went flat and cool, her mouth tightening. Shaw put the link away, and when she turned back to her, there was very little of the woman who’d vibrated at Root’s touch in the closed-off woman who faced her now.

“I have to go. We’ll be in touch about your property.”

“You do that very well,” Root murmured. “Switch right back into cop mode. And it suits you perfectly.”

“It had better. Don’t bother seeing me out. I can find my way.”

“Sameen.”

She stopped at the doorway and looked back. There Root was, a figure in red-accented black, surrounded by centuries of violence, looking at her with those luminous eyes. Inside the cop, something still pulled toward her.

“We’ll see each other again,” said Root.

Shaw nodded. “Count on it.”

Root let her go, knowing Hersh would emerge out of some shadow to return her coat and bid her good night.

Alone, she took the gray fabric button from her pocket, the one she’d found on the floor of her limo. The one that had fallen from the jacket of that awful drab gray suit Sameen had been wearing the first time she saw her. Studying it, knowing she had no intention of giving it back to her, Root felt like an utter fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While my US English skills may be slightly ropy, I think I should be highly congratulated for remembering things like "silverware". I mean, I don't want to run the mood by dropping terms like "cutlery" everywhere.
> 
> But it's very good to have an expert consultant for that extra assurance beyond just the story consistency aspect.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw has another new investigation on her plate, so she's off to her main suspect's den to see what information she can extract.
> 
> More quality beta beat-downs (in the best way) from @SloanGreyMercyDeath. All remaining errors are mine own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters are plotty-plot, but investigator and suspect get to know each other a little more, at least.

A rookie was guarding the door to Lola Starr’s apartment. Shaw pegged him as such because he barely looked old enough to order a beer, his uniform looked as if it had just been lifted from the supply rack, and his face looked a delicate shade of green.

A few months of working this neighborhood, and a cop stopped needing to puke at the sight of a corpse. Chemi-heads, the street LCs, and just plain assholes liked to beat on each other along these nasty blocks as much for entertainment as for business profits. From the smell that had greeted her outside, someone had died out there recently, or the recycle trucks hadn’t been through in the last week.

“Officer.” Shaw paused, flashing her badge. The rookie had gone on alert the moment she’d stepped out of the crappy elevator. Instinct warned her, rightly enough, that without the quick ID, she’d have been treated to a stun from the weapon his shaky hand was gripping.

“Sir.” His eyes were spooked and unwilling to settle on one spot.

Shaw proceeded as if she didn’t notice his sickly complexion and twitchy manner, and spoke dispassionately. “Give me the status.”

“Sir,” he said again, and took a long unsteady breath. “The landlord flagged down my unit. Said there was a dead woman in the apartment.”

“And is there…” Her gaze flicked down to the name pinned over his breast pocket. “Officer Laskey?”

“Yes, sir, she’s…” He swallowed hard, and Shaw saw the green tinge intensify around his eyes and mouth as he replayed the scene in his mind again.

She continued firmly, “And how did you determine the subject is terminated, Laskey? You take her pulse?”

A flush, no healthier than the green hue, tinted his cheeks. “No, sir. I followed procedure, preserved the crime scene and notified Headquarters. Visual confirmation of termination, so the scene is uncorrupted.”

“The landlord went in?” All of this she could learn later, but he was beginning to steady as she went over the steps he’d taken.

“No, sir, he says he hasn’t. After a complaint by one of the victim’s clients who had an appointment for nine p.m., the landlord checked the apartment. He unlocked the door and saw her. It’s only one room, Lieutenant Shaw, and she’s—you see her as soon as you open the door. Following the discovery, the landlord, in a state of panic, went down to the street and flagged down my patrol unit. Standard evening patrol through this neighborhood. I immediately accompanied him back to the scene, made visual confirmation of suspicious death, and reported in.”

“Have you left your post, officer? However briefly?”

The spooked emotion had gradually left his eyes during his narrative, and they finally settled on hers. “No, sir, lieutenant. I thought I’d have to, for a minute. It’s my first, and I had some trouble maintaining.”

“Looks like you maintained fine to me, Laskey.” She reached into the crime scene kit she’d brought up with her, took out the protective sealant, and began to spray her hands and boots as she spoke. “Make the calls to forensics and the ME. The room needs to be swept, and she needs to be bagged and tagged.”

“Yes, sir. Should I remain on post?”

“Until the first team gets here. Then you can report in.” She finished coating her boots and glanced up at him. His color was almost back to normal, barring a little pallidness in his cheeks. “You married, Laskey?” she asked, as she tossed the spray back into the kit and snapped her recorder to her shirt.

“No, sir. Sort of engaged, though.”

“After you report in, go find your partner. Maybe you’ll want a drink after this shift, but don’t have it alone. You can’t find the good stuff in life at the bottom of a bottle. The good stuff is what you need to remember. Now, where do I find the landlord?” she continued briskly, as she waved the unsecured door open.

“He’s down in 1-A.”

“Then tell him to stay put. I’ll take his statement when I’m done here.”

She stepped inside, closed the door. Shaw, no longer a rookie, didn’t feel her stomach revolt at the sight of the body, the mangled flesh, or the blood-splattered child’s toys.

No, all she felt was bleakness at the waste.

Then, almost instantly, the anger came. In a fiery red surge that swept over her when she saw the antique weapon cradled in the arms of a teddy bear.

* * *

“She was just a kid.”

It was seven a.m. and Shaw hadn’t yet been home. She’d caught one hour’s worth of rough and restless sleep at her office desk between info searches and reports. Without a Code Five attached to Lola Starr, Shaw was free to access the data banks of the International Resource Center on Criminal Activity. So far, IRCCA had come up empty on matches.

Now, pale with fatigue, wired on the false energy of fake caffeine, she faced Finch.

“It’s a hard one, Shaw.”

“Her fucking license was barely three months old. There were dolls on her bed. There was candy-flavored soda in her kitchen.”

She couldn’t get past it—all those silly, girlish things she’d had to search through while the victim’s murdered body lay on the cheap, frilly pillows and dolls. Enraged, Shaw slapped a print of one of the scene photos onto her desk.

“She looks like she should still have been leading cheers at high school. You figure she knew how to take good precautions? Deal with the dangerous assholes who like them fresh and naive?”

“I don’t figure she thought she’d end up dead,” Finch said evenly. “You want to debate her choice of work, Shaw?”

“No.” Wearily, she looked down at the print again. “No, but it bums me, Finch. A kid like this.”

“You know better than that, Shaw.”

“Yeah, I know better.” She forced herself to snap back into cop mode. “Autopsy should be in this morning, but my prelim puts her dead for twenty-four hours minimum at discovery. You’ve identified the weapon?”

“SIG P210—a very prestigious handgun in its time, about 1980, Swiss import. Silenced. The silencers were only good for two, three shots. It would have been needed because the victim’s place wasn’t soundproofed like Hallen’s.”

“And the perp didn’t phone it in, which tells me they didn’t want her found as quickly. They had to get away someplace else.” Thoughtful, Shaw picked up a small square of paper, officially sealed.

> TWO OF SIX

“One a week,” she said softly. “The killer isn’t giving us much time, Finch.”

“I’m running the victim’s logs, trick book. She had a new client scheduled, 8:00 p.m., night before last. If your prelim checks, it’s our suspect.” Finch smiled thinly. “Chris Smith.”

“Smith. That’s older than the murder weapon.” She pinched the top of her nose. “IRCCA’s sure going to spit out the right hit from that tag.”

“They’re still running data, and so is my meta-analysis tool,” Finch muttered. He was protective, even sentimental, about info systems. In general, and his in particular.

“They’re not going to find squat. We got us a time traveler, Finch.”

“How do you mean, Shaw?” Finch raised his eyebrows.

“It’s a twentieth-century crime,” she said, still massaging between her eyes. “The weapons, the excessive violence, the hand-printed note left on scene. So maybe our killer is some sort of historian, or history nerd, anyway. Somebody who wishes things were what they used to be.”

“A lot of people seem to think things would be better some other way. That’s why the world’s saturated with theme parks.” He twitched his mouth ironically.

Thinking, she dropped her hand. “IRCCA and your tool isn’t going to help us get into this perp’s head. It still takes a human mind to play that game. What is the perp doing, Finch? Why?”

“Killing LCs. Why? That’s a very good question, Shaw.”

“Sex workers have always been easy targets, back to Jack the Ripper, right? It’s a vulnerable job—even now with all the screening, we still get clients knocking LCs around, killing them.”

“Doesn’t happen much, though,” Finch commented. “Sometimes when a client is drunk or drugged, things get out of hand, violent. But most LCs take good precautions, work in decent establishments, are even safer than teachers.”

“Sex work always has some risk and so far the killer has targeted solo operators. But yeah, things have changed, some things. People rarely kill with guns now. Too expensive, too hard to come by. Sex isn’t the strong motivator it used to be. It’s too cheap, too easy to come by.” She snorted. “Assuming sex was ever the main motivation for that kind of violence. Interpersonal violence is less tolerated now, too. We have different methods of investigation, and a whole new batch of motives. But when you get past all that, the one fact is that people still terminate people. Keep digging, Finch. I’ve got people to talk to.”

“What you need is some sleep, Sameen. You’re looking run down.”

“Let the killer sleep,” Shaw muttered. “Let that asshole sleep until I catch up.” Steeling herself, she turned to her desk link. It was time to contact the victim’s parents.

* * *

By the time Shaw walked into the sumptuous foyer of Root’s midtown office, she’d been up for more than thirty-two hours. She’d gotten through the difficult job of telling two shocked, weeping parents that their only daughter was dead. She’d stared at her screen until the data swam in front of her eyes.

Her follow-up interview with Lola’s landlord had been its own adventure. Since the man had had time to recover from his initial shock, he’d spent thirty minutes whining at Shaw about the unpleasant publicity and the possibility of a drop-off in rentals.

_So much for human empathy._

Thornhill Industries, New York, was very much what she’d expected. Shiny and sleek, the building lifted one hundred fifty stories into the Manhattan sky. It was a deep ebony in shade, glossy as wet stone. Tiny pinpoint lights were set around the structure, and shifted colour in a formless pattern reminiscent of the blinking lights in mega-sized computational grids.

Inside, the main lobby took up a full city block, boasting three tony restaurants, a high-priced boutique, an art gallery, a handful of speciality shops, and a small theater that played art films. The pastel multi-coloured floor tiles were longer and wider than Shaw was tall, and glowed with an internal light. Clear glass elevators zipped busily up and down, people glides transported pedestrians at angles through the space, while disembodied voices guided visitors to various points of interest or, if there was business to be conducted, the proper office.

For those who wanted to wander about on their own, there were more than a dozen moving maps. Shaw marched up to one of the maps and was politely offered assistance.

“Root,” she said, annoyed that her name hadn’t been listed on the main directory.

“I’m sorry.” The map’s voice was that overly-mannered tone that was meant to be soothing, but which instead grated on Shaw’s already raw nerves. “I’m not at liberty to access that information.”

“Root,” Shaw repeated, holding up her badge for it to scan. She waited impatiently while it did its thing, checking and verifying her ID, and notifying the woman’s office.

“Please proceed to the east wing, Lieutenant Shaw. You will be met.”

“Right.”

Shaw turned down a corridor, passing a black marble wall feature that held a forest of snowy white flowers.

“Lieutenant.” A woman in a killer red skirt suit, with a precise blonde ponytail and dark eyes smiled coolly. “Come with me, please.”

The woman laid her palm against a sheet of black glass for a handprint. The wall slid open, revealing a private elevator. Shaw stepped inside with her, and was unsurprised when her escort requested the top floor. Shaw had been certain Root would be satisfied with nothing but the top.

Her guide was silent on the ride up and exuded a discreet whiff of a pleasant scent that matched her stylish shoes and hairdo. Shaw had to admire women who put themselves together, top to toe, with such seeming effortlessness.

The elevator came to a halt and the doors opened into a silent, lushly-carpeted foyer the size of a small home. There were lush green plants—real plants: ficus, palm, what appeared to be a dogwood flowering off season. There was a sharp spicy scent from a bank of dianthus, blooming in shades of rose and vivid purple. The garden surrounded a comfortable waiting area of plum sofas, glossy wood tables, and lamps with slowly shifting lights that gently and clearly lit the area.

In the center of the space was a circular workstation, equipped as efficiently as a cockpit with the very latest tech gear. Two people worked at it in a seamless display of competence in motion. Root plainly knew how to select her staff and ensure they were well-trained.

Shaw was led past them into a glass-sided breezeway. A peek down, and she could see Manhattan. There was music piped in, something classical that she didn’t know the name of. Music hadn’t been part of Shaw’s life after she lost both parents. Not until she was an adult, anyway.

The woman in the killer suit paused again at the end of the passage and flashed her cool, perfect smile before speaking aloud. “Lieutenant Shaw, Root.”

“Send her in, Martine. Thank you.”

Again, Martine laid her palm on the scanner. “Go right in, lieutenant,” she invited as the panel slid open.

“Thanks.” Out of curiosity, Shaw briefly watched Martine walk back toward the reception area, appreciating her graceful step in four-inch heels. She then turned and proceeded into Root’s office.

It was, as Shaw had expected, as impressive as the rest of Root's New York headquarters. Despite the soaring, three-sided view of New York, the lofty ceiling with its pinprick lights, and the gold, charcoal and plum tones in the furnishings, it was the self-possessed woman behind the ebony desk that commanded attention.

She was wearing a burgundy and black brocade suit, with the cuffs rolled partway up her forearms. Her hair was in a relaxed yet professional-looking bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were framed by immersive-reality HUD lenses with retro black rims that made her look like a stylish, hot, old-timey librarian. By contrast, both hands were sheathed in ultra-modern silvery meshes of the kind used by serious computer geeks as input devices. She looked totally at ease and yet totally in control.

_What in hell is it about her?_ Shaw still could not figure herself out as she paused momentarily and watched the other woman behind her desk.

Root rose and slanted a smile at her as she placed her lenses on the desk and stripped off the hand meshes. 

“Lieutenant Shaw,” she said with a faint drawl. “A pleasure, as always.”

“You might not think so when I’m finished.”

She raised her perfect brows. “Why don’t you come the rest of the way in and get started? We'll see how it goes. May I offer you some coffee?” Her coy smile implied it was not just an invitation to a refreshing beverage.

“Don’t try and distract me, Root.” Shaw walked into the space, and then, to satisfy her curiosity, she took a brief turn around the room.

It was as big as a helipad, with all the amenities of a first-class hotel: automated service bar, a padded relaxation chair complete with VR and mood settings, one wall showing colorful slowly-morphing abstract shapes. To the left, there was a full bath, including a spa tub and drying tube. All the standard office equipment, of the highest high-tech, was built in.

Root watched her with a courteously pleasant expression. She couldn’t help but admire the way Shaw moved, the way those intense, alert eyes took in everything.

“Would you like the full tour, Sam?”

Shaw rolled her eyes at her. “No. How do you work with all this…” Using both hands, she gestured widely at the treated glass walls. “Open.”

“I don’t like being closed in. Are you going to sit, or prowl?”

“I’m going to stand. I have some questions to ask you, Root. You’re entitled to have counsel present.”

“Sounds fun. Am I under arrest?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Then we’ll save the lawyers until I am. Please, ask.”

Though Shaw kept her eyes level on Root’s, she was fully aware of the other woman’s hands, one loosely clasping the other in front of her body, black-painted nails visible. Hands revealed emotions.

“Night before last,” she said abruptly, “between the hours of eight and ten p.m. Can you verify your whereabouts?”

“I believe I was here until shortly after eight.” With a steady hand, Root touched her desk log. “I logged off at 8:17. I left the building shortly afterwards and rode home.”

“Rode,” Shaw interrupted, “in a vehicle someone else was driving?”

“Rode by myself. I keep a bike here. I don’t believe in keeping my employees waiting on my whims.”

“Democratic of you.” And, Shaw thought, _inconvenient_. She’d wanted Root to have an easily verifiable, rock-hard alibi.

They could pull the street surveillance footage, but that could take days to obtain and process. Finch claimed that his tool could analyze vid footage with zero delay if it had direct access to the feeds. Access that it had not been granted so far. Shaw did not want to waste days on eliminating suspects, especially with politics involved. Not to mention specific asshole politicians who were likely to demand knee-jerk arrests of the said suspects, given the slightest excuse.

She frowned slightly. “And then?”

“I poured myself a brandy, had a shower, changed. I had a late supper with a friend.”

“How late, and what friend?”

“I believe I arrived at about ten. I like to be prompt. At Madeline Montmart’s townhouse.”

Shaw had a quick vision of a curvy blond with a sultry mouth and almond eyes. “Madeline Montmart, the actress?”

“Yes. I believe we had squab, if that’s helpful.”

She ignored the sarcasm. “No one can verify your movements between 8:17 and 10 p.m.?”

“One of the staff might have noticed, but then, I pay them well and they’re likely to say what I tell them to say.” Root’s voice took on a slight edge as her mouth tightened. “So I’m guessing there’s been another murder.”

“Lola Starr, licensed companion. Certain details will be released to the media within the hour.”

“And undoubtedly certain details will not.”

“Do you own a silencer, Root?”

Root’s expression didn’t change. “Several. You look exhausted, Shaw. Have you been up all night?”

“Goes with the job. Do you own a Swiss handgun, SIG P210, circa 1980?”

“I acquired one about six weeks ago. Please sit down.”

“Were you acquainted with Lola Starr?” Reaching into her briefcase, Shaw pulled out a photo print she’d found in Lola’s apartment. The pretty, elfin girl beamed out, full of sassy fun.

Root lowered her gaze to it as it landed on her desk. Her eyes flickered. This time, her voice was tinged with something Shaw thought sounded close to pity.

“She’s very young.”

“She turned eighteen four months ago. Applied to become a licensed companion on her birthday.”

“She didn’t have time to grow into it, did she?” Her eyes lifted to Shaw’s. And yes, it was pity. “I didn’t know her. I wouldn’t engage her services—I have no attraction for a childlike appearance.” Root picked up the print and came around her desk to offer it back to Shaw, who took it and bent down to slip back into her briefcase. Root backed away a little until she touched her desk. She propped one hip on its edge, making herself comfortable, and looked at Shaw attentively. “Please sit.”

“Have you ever—”

“Sameen, if you’re going to interrogate me, will you please have the courtesy to _sit down_?” Root stood up again abruptly and took a step toward Shaw, her boot clipping the case where it rested on the floor. It tipped over, spilling out prints of Lola that had nothing to do with sassy fun.

Shaw might have reached them first—her reflexes were at least as good as Root’s. But perhaps she wanted Root to see them. Perhaps she needed her to.

Crouching next to Shaw, Root picked up an image taken at the scene. She stared at it. “Shaw,” she said softly, looking at her. “You believe I’m capable of this?”

"What I believe isn’t the issue. Investigating— " She broke off when Root’s eyes held hers, intently.

“You believe I’m capable of this?” Root repeated in a tight voice.

“No, but I have a job to do.”

“Your job is appalling.”

Shaw took the prints back and stored them in the case. “From time to time.”

“How do you sleep at night, after looking at something like this?”

Shaw flinched. Though she recovered in a snap, Root had seen it. She was taken aback by the vulnerability of Shaw’s reaction, and was even more sorry she’d caused it.

“By knowing I’ll take down the bastard who did it. Get out of my way.”

Root stayed where she was and laid a hand on Shaw’s rigid arm. “Someone in my line of work has to read people quickly and accurately, Shaw. Right now, you seem like someone that’s close to the edge.”

“I said, Root, _get out of my way_ ,” Shaw gritted through her teeth.

Completely unfazed by the not-so-veiled threat, Root rose and shifted her hold to gently pull Shaw to her feet. But she remained in the way of her exit and kept her hand on Shaw’s arm.

“They’ll do it again,” Root said quietly. “And it’s eating at you, wondering when and where and who.”

“Don’t analyze me. We’ve got a whole department of shrinks on the payroll for that.”

“Why haven’t you been to see one? You’ve been slipping through loopholes to avoid Testing.”

Shaw’s eyes narrowed. “How the hell do you know that?”

Root twitched a smile, but there was no amusement in it.

“I have my methods, lieutenant. You were due in Testing several days ago, standard department procedure after a justifiable termination. A termination that you performed the same night Claire was killed.”

“Keep out of my business,” Shaw said fiercely. “And fuck your 'methods'.”

“What are you afraid of, Shaw? What are you afraid they’ll find, if they get a look inside of that head of yours? If they examine your feelings?”

“I’m not afraid of anything. And I don't have those kinds of feelings,” Shaw said acidly as she jerked her arm free.

In response, Root merely laid a hand on her cheek. A gesture so unexpected, so tender, something deep in Shaw’s gut quivered.

“Let me help,” said Root in her gentlest voice.

“I—” Something nearly spilled out, as the prints had. But this time her will kept it under control. “I’m handling it.” Shaw turned away. “You can pick up your property anytime after nine a.m. tomorrow.”

“Sameen.”

Shaw kept her eyes focused on the doorway and kept walking. “What?”

“I want to see you tonight.”

“No.”

Root was tempted—very tempted—to follow after her. Instead, she stayed where she was. “I can help you with the case.”

Her attention caught, Shaw stopped and turned around. If Root hadn’t been experiencing a sudden flare of inappropriate lust at the watchful gaze focused on her in that moment, she might have laughed aloud at the combination of suspicion and mockery in Shaw’s eyes.

“And how might you do that, Root?”

“I know people Claire knew.” As Root spoke, she saw the mockery shift to interest. But the suspicion remained. “I have other methods for acquiring information. It doesn’t take a huge mental leap to realize you’ll be looking for a connection between Claire and the young woman in those images you have. I can try and find one.”

“Information from a suspect doesn’t carry much weight in an investigation. But,” Shaw added curtly before Root could speak again, “you can let me know.”

Root seemed a touch too pleased by the concession. “If it's the best way a girl will get to see more of you? I will definitely let you know, lieutenant.” She smiled once more and walked with that long-legged saunter back behind her desk. “In the meantime, please get some sleep.”

As soon as the door closed behind Shaw, the smile went out of Root’s eyes. She sat, and remained there in silence for a long moment. Fingering the button she carried in her pocket, she engaged a private, secure channel.

She didn’t want this particular call on her desk log.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw discovers something new in the case. Root discovers something new about Shaw.
> 
> @[SloanGreyMercyDeath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SloanGreyMercyDeath)'s brilliant beta skills are already making me a better writer, for real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW gory child murder. It's a few sentences while Shaw's describing the case before her present one

# Chapter 7

Shaw stared into the pinprick aperture of the peep camera at Tomas Koroa’s door and started to announce herself when the door slid open. He was in black tie, with a cashmere cape swung negligently over his shoulders, offset by the cream of a silk scarf. His smile was every bit as well turned out as his wardrobe.

“Lieutenant Shaw. How lovely to see you again.” His eyes—full of a cheerfully appreciative expression Shaw chose not to acknowledge—skimmed over her. “And how unfortunate I’m just on my way out.”

“I won’t keep you long.” She stepped forward. He stepped back. “A couple of questions, Mr. Koroa, informally. Or we can do it formally at the station, with your representative or counsel present.”

His well-shaped brows shot up at Shaw's curt tone. “I see. I thought we’d progressed beyond that. Fine, lieutenant, ask away.” He let the door slide shut again. “Let’s keep it informal.”

“Your whereabouts night before last, between the hours of eight and eleven?”

“Night before last?” He slipped a link out of his pocket, flipped it out to tablet size. “Ah, yes. I picked up a client at seven-thirty for an eight o’clock curtain at the Grande Theater. They’re doing a reprise of Ibsen—depressing stuff. We sat third row, center. It ended just before eleven and we had a late supper, catered. Here. I was engaged with her until three a.m.”

His smile flashed as he tucked the now-folded link away again. “Does that clear me?”

“If your client will corroborate.”

The smile faded into a look of pain. “Come on, lieutenant, you’re killing me.”

“Someone’s killing people in your profession,” she snapped back. “Contact details, Mr. Koroa.” She waited until he had taken the link out again and mournfully sent her the data. “Are you acquainted with a Lola Starr?”

“Lola, Lola Starr… doesn’t sound familiar.” He checked the link again and scanned through his contacts. “Apparently not. Why?”

“You’ll hear about it on the news by morning,” was all Shaw told him as she opened the door again. “So far, it’s only been women, Mr. Koroa, but if I were you, I’d be very careful about taking on new clients.”

With a throbbing head, she walked back toward the elevator. Unable to resist, she glanced at the door of Claire Hallen’s apartment, where the red police security light blinked steadily.

She needed to sleep, she told herself. She needed to go home and empty her mind for just one hour. But instead, she was keying in her ID to disengage the seal, and walking into the home of a dead woman.

It was silent. And it was empty. She’d expected nothing else. Somehow, she’d hoped there would be some flash of intuition on seeing the place again, but there was only the steady pounding in her temples. Ignoring it, she went into the bedroom.

The windows had been sealed with concealing spray to prevent the media or the morbidly curious sending up drones to check out the scene. She ordered the lights to come on and the bed was revealed in its post-sweep condition.

The sheets had been stripped off and taken into forensics. Body fluids, hair, and skin had already been analyzed and logged. There was a stain on the floating mattress where blood had seeped through those satin sheets. The pillowed headboard was splattered with it. She wondered if anyone would care enough to have it cleaned.

She glanced toward the table. Finch had taken the home hub link so that he could search through its storage. The room had been searched and swept. There was nothing routine left to do.

Yet Shaw went to the dresser, going methodically through the drawers again. _Who would claim all these clothes?_ All these lush fabrics—the clothing of a woman who had preferred the textures of the rich near her skin. The mother would, maybe. Why hadn’t she sent in a request for the return of her daughter’s things?

Something to think about.

She went through the closet, again going through all the clothing, checking pockets, linings, seams. Nothing. Next were the shoes, all neatly kept in individual acrylic boxes. _The woman had only had two feet_. Shaw snorted to herself. No one needed sixty pairs of shoes.

Lola hadn’t had nearly so much, she recalled. Two pairs of ridiculously high heels, a pair of girlish vinyl straps, and a simple pair of air pump sneakers, all jumbled in her narrow closet.

But Claire had been an organized as well as a vain soul. Her shoes were carefully stacked in rows of—

 _Wrong._ It felt like all the hair on her body tried to stand up at once, and Shaw stepped back to survey the space. _It’s wrong._ The closet was as big as a room, and every inch of space had been ruthlessly utilized. Now, there was a full foot empty on the shelves. Because the shoes were stacked six high in a row of eight.

It wasn’t the way Shaw had found them or the way she’d left them. They’d been organized according to color and style. In stacks, she remembered clearly, of four, a row of twelve.

Shaw’s mouth curled into something between a snarl and a smile. Such a tiny mistake. But someone who made one mistake like this was bound to make another.

* * *

“Would you repeat that, lieutenant?”

“The killer restacked the shoe boxes wrong, commander.” Negotiating traffic, shivering as her vehicle heater blew not-quite-freezing air around her toes, Shaw gave an update to Elias. A tourist blimp crept by at low altitude, the guide’s voice booming out shopping tips—neglecting to mention their cut from the promoted stores—as they crossed toward 5th. Some idiot road crew with a special daylight license power-drilled a tunnel access on the corner of 6th and 78th. Shaw raised her voice above the din.

“You can review the initial vid of the scene. I know how the closet was arranged. It had made an impression on me—how any one person should have so many clothes, and keep them so organized. Whoever it was went back.”

“Returned to the scene of the crime?” Elias’s voice was dry.

“Clichés have a basis in fact.” Hoping for relative quiet, she headed west down a cross street and ended up fuming behind an elderly microbus that stopped constantly for passengers. _Doesn’t anyone stay at home in New York? Out of the goddamn way?_ “Or they wouldn’t be clichés,” she finished and switched to self-drive so that she could warm her hands in her pockets. “There were other things. She kept her costume jewelry in a partitioned drawer. Rings in one section, bracelets in another, and so on. Some of the chains were tangled when I looked again.”

“The sweepers—”

“Sir, I went through the place again after the sweepers. I know the perp’s been there.” Shaw bit back her frustration and reminded herself that Elias was a practical but cautious man. Administrators had to be. “The killer got through security—without obviously breaking the seal—and entered the residence. They were looking for something—something forgotten. Something the victim had. Something we missed.”

“You want the place swept again?”

“I do. And I want Finch to go back over Claire’s files. Something’s there, somewhere. And it concerns them enough to risk going back for it.”

“I’ll authorize it. The chief is not going to like it.” The commander was silent for a moment. Then, as if he’d just remembered it was a fully secured line, he snorted. “Fuck the chief. Good eye, Shaw.”

“Thank you—” But he’d cut her off before she could finish being grateful.

 _Two of six._ In the privacy of her vehicle, she shivered from more than the cold. There were four more people out there whose lives were in her hands.

After pulling into her garage, she swore she’d call the damn mechanic the next day. If history ran true, it meant he’d have her vehicle in for a week, diddling with some dumbass chip in the heater control. The idea of the paperwork needed to access a replacement vehicle through the department was too daunting to consider.

Besides, she was used to the one she had, with all its little quirks. Everyone knew the uniforms copped the best air-to-land vehicles. Detectives had to make do with clunkers. She’d have to rely on public transportation, or just hook a vehicle from the police garage and pay the bureaucratic price later.

Still frowning over the hassle to come, and reminding herself to contact Finch personally to have him go through a week’s worth of security footage on the Gorham, she rode the elevator to her floor. Shaw had no more than unkeyed her locks when her hand was on her weapon, drawing it.

The silence of her apartment was wrong. She knew instantly she wasn’t alone. The prickle along her skin had her doing a quick sweep, arms and eyes, shifting fluidly left then right. There was only one dim light filtering into the main room—all was dark and quiet. Then Shaw caught a movement that had her muscles tense, her trigger finger poised on her weapon.

“Hi, Shaw. Miss me?” Root spoke in a light voice from where she lounged on a chair in the shadows, giving Shaw what she could only think of as a _dorky smile_. Shaw stared at her, stony-faced, as she unfolded herself and stood up. “I _so_ admire your excellent reflexes, lieutenant. They're so excellent,” she continued in a mild tone as she touched on a lamp, “that I'm absolutely positive you won’t use that weapon of yours on me.”

Shaw _might_. She might just give Root one good hard jolt. It would wipe that stupid annoying smirk off her face, for a start. But any discharge of a weapon meant paperwork that was not worth dealing with for a moment of gratification. Shaw swore to herself to keep remembering that until she finished kicking Root out.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you, sweetie.” Root’s eyes remained on hers as she lifted her hands. “I’m unarmed. I’d be delighted for you to frisk me if you won’t take my word for it.”

 _I just bet you’d be delighted, pervert._ Very slowly, and with some reluctance, Shaw holstered her weapon. “I imagine you have a whole fleet of very expensive and very clever lawyers, Root, who would have you out before I finished booking you on a B and E. But why don’t you tell me why I shouldn’t put myself through the trouble and the city through the expense of throwing you in a cage for a couple of hours?”

Root wondered to herself at just how much of a masochist she’d suddenly become that she could _so_ enjoy the way Shaw ripped into her. “It wouldn’t be productive and you’re tired, Sam. Why don’t you sit down?”

“I won’t bother to ask you how you got in here.” Shaw could feel herself vibrating with temper, and wondered just how much satisfaction she’d gain from clamping those elegant wrists in some good tight restraints. “You own the building, so that question answers itself.”

“One of the things I admire about you is that you don’t waste time on the obvious.”

“My question is why.”

“I found myself thinking about you, in both the professional and personal senses, after you’d left my office.” Root smiled flirtatiously. “Have you eaten?”

“Why?” Shaw repeated.

Root stepped toward her so that the slant of light from the lamp played behind her, its glow reflecting off her now-loose hair. “Professionally, I made a couple of calls that might be of interest to you. Personally…” She lifted a hand to Shaw’s face, fingers just brushing her chin, her thumb skimming along the jawline. “I found myself a little worried about all that tiredness in your face and I thought it might be good to bring you some food.”

Though she knew it was a juvenile reaction, Shaw jerked her chin free. “What calls?”

Root merely smiled and took out her link. “May I?” she said, even as she cued the device. “It’s Root. You can send the meal over now, thanks,” she said to the other end. She disengaged, smiled at Shaw again. “You don’t object to pasta, do you?”

“Not on principle. But I do object to being handled.”

“That’s something else I like about you.” Because Shaw wouldn’t, Root sat and, ignoring her frown, pulled the small silver case from her pocket. “But I find it easier to relax over a hot meal. You don’t relax enough, Shaw.”

“You don’t know me well enough to judge what I do or don’t do. I didn’t say you could smoke in here.”

Root lit the slim black-papered joint, gazing at her through its faint, fragrant haze. “You didn’t arrest me for breaking and entering, so I’m pretty sure you’re not going to arrest me for smoking. I brought a bottle of wine. I left it to breathe on the counter in the kitchen. Would you like some?”

“What I’d like—” She had a sudden flash of suspicion, followed by a rush of fury so strong that her vision hazed momentarily. In a quick lunge, she was at her hub link, demanding access.

That annoyed Root—enough to have her voice tighten. “If I’d come in to poke through your files, I’d hardly have been stupid enough to wait around for you.”

“The hell you wouldn’t. That kind of arrogance is just like you.” But Shaw’s security was intact. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Until she saw the small package beside her monitor. She frowned. “What’s this?”

“I have no idea.” Root blew out a thin stream of smoke. “It was on the floor inside the door. I picked it up.”

Shaw knew what it was—the size, the shape, the weight. And she knew that when she viewed the contents of the storage cube, she would see Lola Starr’s murder.

Something about the way Shaw’s eyes changed had Root rising again, had her voice softening. “What is it, Shaw?”

“Official business. Excuse me.” She turned, walked directly to the bedroom, and closed the door.

It was Root’s turn to frown. She went into the kitchen, located glasses, and poured the burgundy. Root was almost surprised that Shaw even had wine glasses, given the simplicity of her decor and furnishings. There was very little clutter in the apartment, very little that spoke of background or family. No mementos. She’d been tempted to wander into Shaw’s bedroom while she’d had the apartment to herself and see what she might have discovered about her there, but she’d resisted for once.

Not so much out of respect for Shaw’s privacy. If Root was being honest with herself—she generally was—she was more excited by the idea of discovering more about the woman from her revealing _herself_ than from her surroundings. Still, she found the plain colors and almost spartan furnishings illuminating. Shaw didn’t live here, as far as Root could tell, so much as she existed here. She lived in her work. Root was not unfamiliar with that syndrome.

She tasted the wine and decided it was good enough. She crushed out her joint, discarded it, and carried both glasses back into the living room. It was going to be a interesting challenge, solving the puzzle of Sameen Shaw.

When Shaw came back in, nearly twenty minutes later, a caterer was just finishing setting up dishes on a small table by the window. However amazing it all smelled, it failed to stir her appetite. Her head was pounding once again from what she'd seen.

With a polite murmur, Root tipped and dismissed the caterer. She said nothing until the door closed and she was alone with Shaw again. “I’m sorry, Shaw.”

“For what?”

“For whatever’s worrying you right now.” Except for that one flush of temper, Shaw had been pale since she’d come into the apartment. Now, her cheeks were entirely colorless, her eyes too dark. When Root started toward her, Shaw shook her head once, fiercely.

“Go away, Root.”

“Going away’s easy. Too easy.” Very deliberately, she put her hands on Shaw’s shoulders and felt them tense. “Take a minute, please. Would it matter, really matter to anyone but you, if you took one minute to let go?”

Shaw shook her head again, but this time there was weariness in the gesture. Root heard the sigh escape, and frowned. “You can’t tell me?”

“No.”

Root nodded, but her brow furrowed. She knew better; it shouldn’t matter to her. _Shaw_ shouldn’t. But too much about her did in fact matter, as Root was learning to her own internal disquiet.

“Someone else, then?” she asked quietly.

“There’s no one else.” Then realizing how that might be construed, Shaw pulled back. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t.” Root’s smile was wry and not terribly amused. “But I think we’re both going to be focussed on each other for at least a little while yet.”

Shaw’s step back out of Root’s light hold wasn’t a retreat, but a statement of distance. “You’re taking too much for granted, Root.”

“Not at all. Absolutely nothing for granted. How could I? You make me work hard, lieutenant. Your dinner’s getting cold.”

Shaw was too tired to make a stand, too tired to argue. She sat down, picked up her fork. Put it down again. “Have you been to Claire Hallen’s apartment during the last week?”

“No, why would I?”

She studied Root carefully. “Why would anyone?”

Root paused a moment, then realized the question wasn’t academic. “To relive the event,” she suggested. “To be certain nothing was left behind that would be incriminating.”

“And as owner of the building, you could get in as easily as you got in here.”

Root’s mouth compressed. In irritation, Shaw judged, the irritation of someone tired of answering the same questions. It was a small thing, but it was a very good sign of her innocence.

“Yes. It wouldn't be a problem. My master code would get me in.”

Shaw kept to herself the fact that a building’s master code would not have broken the police security seal. That would require a different level of master code, or an expert on lock security to crack it.

“You believe that someone not in your department has been in that apartment since the murder?”

“You can believe that,” Shaw agreed. “Who handles your security, Root?”

“I use Maxwell for both my business and my home.” She lifted her glass. “It’s simpler that way, as I own the company.”

“Of course you do. I suppose you know quite a bit about security yourself.”

“You could say I have a long-standing interest in security matters. That’s why I bought the business.” She scooped up the herbed pasta, held the fork towards Shaw, and was gratified when Shaw took the fork and the offered bite. “Shaw, I’m tempted to confess all, just to wipe that unhappy look off your face and see you eat with the enthusiasm I enjoyed last time. But whatever my crimes, and they are undoubtedly legion, they don’t include these murders. Either or both.” 

Shaw looked down at her plate and began to eat. It bugged her a lot that Root could see she was unhappy. “What did you mean when you said I made you 'work hard'’?”

“You think things through very carefully and you weigh the odds, the options. You’re not impulsive. For example, while I think you can be seduced, with the right timing, and the right touch, it wouldn’t happen often. Just sex, though, that would be something you can get whenever you want. I want something more than that, something I need to work for.”

Shaw looked up at her again. “That’s what you want to do, Root? Seduce me?”

“I think I’ve made it pretty clear,” she returned. “Sadly, not tonight. Beyond that, I want to find out what it is that makes you the person you are. I also want to help you get what you need. Right now, what you need is a murderer. You blame yourself,” she added. “It seems out of character.”

“I don’t blame myself.”

“Look in the mirror,” Root said.

“There was _nothing_ I could do,” Shaw erupted. “Nothing I could do to stop it. Any of it.”

“Are you supposed to be able to stop it? Any of it? All of it?”

“That’s exactly what I’m supposed to do.”

Root tilted her head. “How?”

Shaw pushed away from the table. “By being smart. By being in time. By doing my job.”

There’s something more here, Root thought to herself. Something deeper, beyond this case. She folded her hands on the table. “Isn’t that what you’re doing now?”

The images flooded back into Shaw’s brain. All the death. All the blood. All the waste. “Now they’re dead.” And the taste of it was bitter in her mouth. “There should have been something I could have done to stop it.”

“To stop a murder before it happens, you’d have to be inside the head of an uncontrolled killer,” Root said. “Who could live with that?”

“ _I_ can live with that.” Shaw snapped back at her. And it was pure truth. She could live with anything but failure. “Serve and protect—it’s not just a phrase: it’s a promise. If I can’t keep my word, I’m dogshit. I didn’t protect them, any of them. I can only serve them after they’re dead. Goddammit, Root, she was hardly more than a baby. Just a baby and he cut her into pieces. _I wasn’t in time._ I wasn’t in time, and I should have been.” 

Tears briefly came to her eyes, startling her. Pressing a hand to her forehead, Shaw lowered herself onto the sofa. “Shit,” was all she could say, in pain. “Shit.”

Root came to her. Instinct had her taking Shaw’s arms firmly rather than any closer contact. “If you can’t or won’t talk to me, you have to talk to someone. You know that.”

“I can handle it. I—” But the rest of the words slid away when Root shook her head soberly, concern in her eyes.

“What’s it costing you?” Root asked evenly. “And how much would it matter to anyone if you let it go? For one minute, just let it out.”

“I don’t know.” Maybe that was the problem, Shaw realized. She wasn’t sure if she could pick up her badge, or her weapon, or her life, if she let herself think too deeply, let the anger truly surface. “I see her,” Shaw said on a deep breath. “I see her whenever I close my eyes or stop focusing on what needs to be done.”

“Tell me.”

She almost rose to pour a whiskey, but Root's wine was there on the table. She retrieved her glass and Root’s, then returned to the sofa. A long drink eased her dry throat and settled the worst of the nerves. It was fatigue, she cautioned herself, that weakened her enough that she couldn’t hold it in. 

“The call came through when I was a half block away. I’d just closed another case, finished the data load. Dispatch called for the closest unit. Domestic violence—it’s always messy. I’m a homicide cop, but I was practically on the doorstep. So I took it. When I got there, most of the neighbors were outside, all of them talking at once.”

The scene came back to her, perfectly, like watching a vid. “A woman was in her nightgown and she was crying. Her face was battered, and one of the neighbors was trying to bind up a gash on her arm. She was bleeding badly, so I told them to call the MTs. She kept saying, ‘He’s got her. She’s got my baby.’”

Shaw took another drink. “She grabbed me, bleeding on me, screaming and crying and telling me I had to stop him. I had to save her baby. I should have called for backup, but I didn’t think I could wait. I took the stairs and I could hear him before I got to the third floor where he was locked in. He was raging. I think I heard the little girl screaming, but I’m not sure.”

She closed her eyes then, praying she’d been wrong. She wanted to believe that the child had already been dead, already beyond pain. To have been that close, only steps away… No, she couldn’t live with that.

“When I got to the door, I used the standard dialog. The woman had given his name through all of her screaming and crying. I used his name and the child’s name. It’s supposed to make it more personal, more real if you use names. I identified myself and said I was coming in. But he just kept raging. I could hear things breaking. I couldn’t hear the child now. I think I knew then. Before I broke down the door, I knew. He’d used the kitchen knife to cut her to pieces.”

Her fingers tightened on the glass as she raised it again. “There was so much blood. She was so small, but there was so much blood. On the floor, on the wall, all over her. I could see it was still dripping off the knife. Her face was turned toward me. Her little face, with big blue eyes. Like a doll’s.”

She was silent for a moment, then set her glass aside. “He was too wired to be stunned. He kept coming. There was blood dripping off the knife, and splattered all over her, and he kept coming. So I looked in his eyes, right in his eyes. And I killed him.”

“And the next day,” Root said quietly, “you dove straight into a murder investigation.”

“Testing’s postponed. I’ll get to it in another day or two.” Shaw shifted her shoulders. “The shrinks, they’ll think it’s the termination. I can make them think that if I have to. But it’s not. I had to kill him. I have no problem accepting that.” She looked straight into Root’s eyes and knew she could tell her what she would not say to anyone else. “I _wanted_ to kill him. Maybe even needed to. As I watched him die, I thought, ‘that fucker will never do that to another child’. I was glad that I’d been the one to stop him.”

“You think that’s wrong.”

“I know it’s wrong. I know anytime a cop gets enjoyment out of a termination in the line, they’ve gone past the edge.” 

Root leaned forward so that their faces were close, her eyes holding Shaw’s. “What was the child’s name?”

“Mandy.” Shaw’s breath caught once before she controlled it. “She was three.”

“Would you be torn up this way if you’d killed him before he’d gotten to her?”

Shaw opened her mouth, then closed it again. “I guess I’ll never know, will I?”

“Yes, you do.” Root laid a hand over hers, and watched Shaw frown and look down at the contact. “You know, I’ve spent most of my life with an intense dislike of police—for various reasons. It seems funny that I’ve met, under such extraordinary circumstances, a cop I can respect and be attracted to at the same time.”

Shaw lifted her gaze again, and though the frown remained, she didn’t pull her hand free of Root’s. “That’s a strange compliment.”

“Apparently we have a strange relationship, darlin’.” Root rose, drawing her to her feet. “Now you need to sleep.” She glanced toward the dinner Shaw had barely touched. “You can heat that up when you’ve gotten your appetite back.” 

“Sure. Next time I’d appreciate you waiting until I’m home before you come in.”

“Progress,” said Root lightly when they reached the door. “You admit there will be a next time.” Her lips curved slightly and she brought the hand she still held to her lips. She caught bafflement, discomfort, and a trace of embarrassment in Shaw’s eyes as she laid a light kiss on her knuckles. “Until next time,” Root said, and left.

Frowning, Shaw rubbed her knuckles over her jeans as she headed to the bedroom. She stripped, letting her clothes lie wherever they dropped. She climbed into bed, shut her eyes, and willed herself to sleep.

She was just dozing off when she remembered Root had never told her who she’d called and what she’d discovered.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Senator is not happy with the progress of the investigation into his granddaughter's death and starts pulling some strings. Shaw gets to know Claire Hallen's family a little better, for good and bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @[SloanGreyMercyDeath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SloanGreyMercyDeath) has done a good scouring and brightened up the place significantly!

In her office, with the door locked, Shaw and Finch reviewed the vid of Lola Starr’s murder on her wall screen. Shaw didn’t so much as twitch at the little popping sound of the silenced weapon. It wasn’t such a shock now to see the massive damage that a bullet did to flesh.

The screen held steady on the ending caption: _Two of Six_. Then it went blank. Without a word, Shaw cued up the first murder and they watched Claire Hallen die again.

“What can you tell me?” Shaw asked when it was finished.

“Recording was made on a Trident MCam, the 5000 model. It’s only been available about six months, very expensive. It sold very well last Christmas, though. More than ten thousand moved in Manhattan alone during the traditional shopping season, not to mention how many went through the gray market. Not as much of a flood as less expensive models, but still too many to trace.” He looked over at Shaw sharply. “Guess who owns Trident?”

“Thornhill Industries.”

“Congratulations. I’d say the odds are fairly high the chief executive owns one herself.”

“She’d certainly have access.” She made a note of it, resisting the memory of how Root’s mouth had felt brushing over her knuckles. “The perp uses a fairly exclusive piece of equipment manufactured by their own company. Arrogance or stupidity?”

“Stupidity doesn’t apply to this killer.”

“No, it doesn’t. The weapon?”

“We’ve got a couple thousand out there in private collections,” Finch began. “Three in the boroughs. Those are the ones that’ve been registered,” he added with a quirk of his mouth. “The silencer doesn’t have to be registered, as it doesn’t qualify as deadly on its own. No way of tracing it.”

He leaned back and gestured at the monitor. “For the first vid, I’ve been running the meta-analysis on it. I came up with a couple of shadows. I feel certain that more than the murder was recorded. But I’ve been unable to enhance anything further. Whoever edited it knew all the tricks or had access to sophisticated equipment with the features built in.”

“What about the sweepers?”

“Commander ordered them for this morning, per your request.” Finch glanced at his watch. “Should be there now. I got the footage when I arrived; ran my tool to speed the analysis. We’ve got a twenty-minute time lapse starting at 3:10, night before last.”

“Asshole waltzed right in,” she muttered. “It’s a shitty neighborhood, Finch, but it’s an upscale building. Nobody noticed the killer either time, which means they can blend.”

“Or they’re used to seeing them.”

“Huh, maybe. If they were one of Claire’s regulars. Tell me why someone who was a regular client for an expensive, sophisticated, experienced sex worker, chose a green, low-scale, what do you call it, ingenue like Lola Starr for their second hit?”

Finch gave her a deadpan look. “Variety?”

“Maybe they liked the action so much the first time, they’re not choosy about the victim now. They made a plan, gave us a number. Is it a long running plan or something they improvised? Why six? We just don’t have enough information. Yet.” Shaw shook her head. “Four more to go, Finch. The perp told us right off the bat we had a serial killer. Announced it, let us know Claire wasn’t particularly important. Just one of six.”

She blew out a breath, unsatisfied. “So why’d they go back?” she said, mostly to herself. “What were they looking for?”

“Maybe the sweepers will tell us.”

“Maybe.” She stood and picked up a list from her desk. “I’m going to check out Claire’s client list again, then hit Lola’s.”

Finch cleared his throat, selected some candy from his pocket stash. “I have some unhappy news, Shaw. The senator’s demanding an update.”

“I have nothing to tell him,” Shaw said, as she turned to leave the room.

“You’re going to have to tell him this afternoon. In East Washington.”

She stopped a pace in front of the door. “Bullshit.”

“The commander gave me the news. We’re on the two o’clock shuttle.” Finch thought resignedly of how his stomach reacted to air travel. “The levers of power are being brought to bear. It’s frustrating to know that there are many more effective places to use them.”

* * *

Shaw was still grinding her teeth over her briefing with Elias when she ran headlong into Hallen’s security outside his office in the New Senate Office Building, East Washington. Their identification aside, both she and Finch were scanned and, according to the revised Federal Property Act of 2032, were obliged to hand over their weapons.

“As if we’d be tempted to attack the man while he’s sitting at his desk,” Finch muttered, as they were escorted over red, white, and blue carpet.

“I wouldn’t mind giving several of these guys a quick buzz.” Flanked by suits and well-shined shoes, Shaw slouched in front of the glossy door to the senator’s office, hands in her pockets, waiting for the internal camera to clear them.

“East Washington has become excessively paranoid since the terrorist hit.” Finch looked straight into the camera with his most prissy expression. “It was indeed a tragedy to lose over 20 legislators, and a heightened degree of vigilance is completely appropriate. But this type of unnecessary security theatre is inefficient, ham-handed, and likely to lead to real security problems being missed or disregarded.”

Shaw was slightly taken aback by the quiet passion with which Finch delivered his speech, but she nodded in agreement, maintaining her stony-faced stare at the security goons around them.

The door opened, and Bannerman, pristine in needle-thin pinstripes, nodded at them. “Long memories are an advantage in politics, Lieutenant Finch. Lieutenant Shaw,” he added with another nod. “We appreciate your promptness.”

“I had no idea the senator and my chief were so close,” Shaw said as she stepped inside. “Or that both of them would be so anxious to waste the taxpayers’ money.”

“Perhaps they both consider justice priceless.” Bannerman gestured them toward the gleaming cherry wood desk—certainly priceless—where Hallen waited.

He had, as far as Shaw could see, benefited from the change of temperature in the country—too lukewarm in her opinion—and the repeal of the Two-Term Bill. Under current law, a politician could now retain their seat for life. All they had to do was buffalo their constituents into electing them.

Hallen was in his element. His paneled office was as hushed as a cathedral and every bit as reverent with its altar-like desk. The austere and uncomfortable-looking visitor chairs seemed designed to induce as much submissiveness as uncushioned pews.

Nothing could be farther away from Root’s high-tech and yet somehow inviting office, with all its comforts. The view in hers was also a lot better, both in terms of the space and its occupant. Shaw wrenched her mind back on track.

“Sit,” Hallen barked, as he folded his large-knuckled hands on the desk. “So, you’re no closer to finding the monster who murdered my granddaughter than you were a week ago.” His brows drew together over his eyes. “I find this difficult to understand, considering the resources of the New York Police and Security Department.”

“Senator.” Shaw let Commander Elias’s terse instructions replay in her head: _be tactful, respectful, and tell him nothing he doesn’t already know._ “We’re using those resources to investigate and gather evidence. While the department is not now prepared to make an arrest, every possible effort is being made to bring your granddaughter’s murderer to justice. Her case is my first priority, and you have my word it will continue to be until it can be satisfactorily closed.”

The senator listened to the little speech with apparent interest. Then he leaned forward, his eyebrows drawing together. “I’ve been in the business of bullshit for more than twice your life, lieutenant. So don’t pull out your tap dance with me. You have nothing.”

 _Fine. Fuck tact._ Less than two minutes in and Shaw was done with the asshole. “What we have, Senator Hallen, is a complicated and delicate investigation. Complicated, given the nature of the crime; delicate, due to the victim’s family of origin. It’s my commander’s opinion that I’m the best choice to conduct the investigation. It’s your right to disagree. But pulling me off my job to come here and defend my work is a waste of time. My time.” She stood, back straight, and stared down at him stonily. “I have nothing new to tell you.”

Ruefully anticipating the fallout that would ensue, Finch rose as well, all respect. “I’m sure you understand, Senator, that the delicacy of an investigation of this nature often means progress is slow. It’s difficult to ask you to be objective when we’re talking of your granddaughter, but Lieutenant Shaw and I have no choice but to be objective.”

With an impatient gesture, Hallen waved them to sit again. “Obviously, my emotions are involved. Claire was an important part of my life. Whatever she became, and however I was disappointed in her choices, she was blood.” He drew a deep breath, let it loose. “I cannot and will not be placated with bits and pieces of information.”

“There’s nothing else I can tell you,” Shaw repeated.

“You can tell me about the prostitute who was murdered two nights ago.” His eyes flicked up to Bannerman.

“Lola Starr,” Bannerman supplied.

“I imagine your sources of information on Lola Starr are as detailed as ours.” Shaw chose to speak directly to Bannerman. “Yes, we believe that there is a connection between the two murders.”

“My granddaughter might have been misguided,” Hallen broke in, “but she did not socialize with trash like Lola Starr.”

Shaw suppressed her eyeroll. _Is there anything that this asswipe can’t be elitist about?_ “We haven’t determined whether they knew each other. But there’s little doubt that they both knew the same person. And that person killed them. Each murder followed a specific pattern. We’ll use that pattern to find the killer. Before, we hope, they kill again.”

“You believe they will,” Bannerman put in.

“I’m sure they will.”

“The murder weapon,” Hallen demanded. “Was it the same type?”

“It’s part of the pattern,” Shaw told him. She’d commit to no more than that. “There are basic and undeniable similarities between the two homicides. There’s no doubt the same person is responsible.”

Calmer now, Shaw stood again. “Senator, I never knew your granddaughter and have no personal tie to her, but I’m personally offended by murder. I’m going after the killer with everything I have. That’s all I can tell you.”

He studied her for a moment. “Very well, lieutenant. Thank you for coming.”

Dismissed, Shaw walked with Finch to the door. By pure luck, in a small mirror hanging on the rear of the door, she saw Hallen signal to Bannerman, and Bannerman acknowledge it. She waited until she was outside before she spoke in a low voice.

“That son of a bitch is going to tail us.”

“Pardon me?”

“Hallen’s guard dog. He’s going to shadow us.”

“Why would he do that?”

“To see what we do, where we go. Why else do you tail anyone? We’re going to lose him at the transport center,” she told Finch as she flagged down a cab. “Keep your eyes open and see if he follows you to New York.”

“If he follows _me_? Where are you going?”

“I’m going to follow my nose.”

* * *

It wasn’t a difficult maneuver. The west wing boarding terminal at National Transport was always bedlam. It was even worse at rush hour when all northbound passengers were jammed into the security line and herded along by computerized voices. Shuttles and runabouts were going to be jammed.

Shaw simply took a few steps away from Finch, leaving him to proceed alone to the shuttle gate, before merging with the crowd, cramming herself into a cross terminal transport to the south wing, and catching an underground shuttle to Virginia. She settled in her shuttle seat, ignoring the commuters heading to their suburban refuges, and took out her link. She retrieved Connie Wyler’s address and then asked for directions.

So far her nose was just fine. She was on the right route and would only have to transfer once, in Richmond. If her luck held, she could finish the trip and be back in her apartment in time for dinner.

With her chin on her fist, she browsed through the feeds on her link. She would have bypassed the news—something she made a habit of doing—but when an all-too-familiar face flashed on-screen, she stopped scrolling.

 _Root._ Shaw narrowed her eyes. _The woman sure kept popping up._ Lips pursed, she cued her in-ears for audio.

“… in this international, multibillion dollar project, Thornhill Industries, DaizoTeku, and Greenfield Group will join hands,” the announcer stated. “It’s taken three years, but it appears that the much debated, much anticipated Olympus Resort will begin construction.”

Olympus Resort. Shaw flipped through her mental files. Some high-class, high-dollar vacation paradise, she recalled. A entire space station dedicated to pleasure and entertainment.

She snorted. Just like Root to spend her time and money on fancy, useless crap. But if she didn’t lose her perfectly-fitting sapphire-hued silk shirt, Shaw imagined she’d make yet another fortune.

“Root—one question, please.”

She watched Root pause on her way down a long flight of marble steps and raise her eyebrows—exactly as Shaw had seen her do so many times already—at the reporter’s interruption.

“Could you tell me why you’ve spent so much time, effort, and considerable personal capital on this project—one that detractors say will never fly?”

“Fly is absolutely what it will do, so to speak.” Root smiled, in a professionally charming way. “As to why, the Olympus Resort will be a haven for pleasure. I can’t think of anything more worthwhile on which to spend time, effort, and capital.”

 _You wouldn’t._ Shaw glanced up just in time to realize she was about to miss her stop. She dashed to the shuttle doors, cursing the electronic voice that scolded her for running, and made the change to Fort Royal.

When she came above ground again, it was snowing. Soft, lazy flakes drifted over her hair and shoulders. Pedestrians were stomping it to mush on the sidewalks, but when she found a cab and gave her destination, the swirl of white all around made the place seem pretty quaint.

There was still countryside to be had, if you possessed the money or the prestige. Connie Wyler and Graham Hallen possessed both and their home was a striking two stories of rosy brick set on a sloping hill and flanked by trees.

Snow was pristine on the expansive lawn and the bare branches of what Shaw thought might be cherry trees. The security gate was an impressive sculpture of ornately curled wrought iron. However decorative it might have been, Shaw was certain it was as practical as a vault and backed by plenty of other security devices. Such as the screen the cab had just pulled up beside.

She leaned out the cab window and displayed her badge to the scanner. “Lieutenant Shaw, NYPSD.”

“You are not listed in the appointment calendar, Lieutenant Shaw.”

“I’m the investigator in charge of the Claire Hallen case. I have some questions for Ms. Wyler or Graham Hallen.”

There was a pause, during which time Shaw began to shiver in the cold coming in through the open window.

“Please step out of the cab, Lieutenant Shaw, and up to the scanner for further identification.”

“Tough joint,” the cabbie muttered, but Shaw merely shrugged and complied.

“Identification verified. Dismiss your transport, Lieutenant Shaw. You will be met there presently.”

“Heard the daughter got whacked up in New York,” the cabbie said as Shaw paid the fare. “Guess they’re not taking any chances. You want I pull back a ways and wait for you?”

“No, thanks. But I’ve got your contact for when I’m ready to go.”

With a half salute, the cabbie backed up and headed off down the road. Shaw’s nose was beginning to go numb when she saw a little electric cart arrive at the gate. The curving iron gate opened enough for her walk through.

“Please step into the cart,” the security system requested. “You will be taken to the house. Ms. Wyler will see you.”

“Terrific.” Shaw climbed into the cart and let it take her noiselessly down a long tree-lined driveway toward the stately brick house. Shaw snorted to herself at the luxe surroundings. _It sure as hell has been a week of seeing how the other one percent live. Nice if you can get it_.

The cart arrived at the base of the front steps, and the door opened immediately as she started up them. Either the servants were required to wear unflattering black suits as their uniform, or the house was still in mourning. Shaw was greeted soberly by a young woman who took her coat and showed her politely into a room off the entrance hall.

Where Root’s home had quietly shown the money behind it, this one definitely said _old money_. The carpets were thick and the walls papered in silk. The wide windows offered a stunning view of rolling hills and falling snow. _And solitude_ , Shaw thought. The architect must have recognized that the inhabitants enjoyed the feeling of seclusion.

“Lieutenant Shaw.” Connie rose. There was nervousness in the deliberate movement, in the rigid stance and, Shaw saw, in the shadowed eyes filled with grief.

“Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Wyler.”

“My husband’s in a meeting. I can interrupt him if necessary.”

“I don’t think it will be.”

“You’ve come about Claire.”

“Yes.”

“Please sit down.” Connie gestured toward a chair upholstered in an ivory jacquard. “Can I offer you anything?”

“No, thanks. I’ll try not to keep you very long. I don’t know how much of my report you’ve seen—”

“All of it,” Connie interrupted. “I believe. It seems quite thorough. As an attorney, I have every confidence that when you find the person who killed my daughter, you’ll have built a strong case.”

“That’s the plan.” She was running on nerves, Shaw decided, watching the way Connie’s long, graceful fingers clenched, unclenched. “This is a difficult time for you.”

“She was my only child,” Connie said simply. “My husband and I were—are—proponents of the population adjustment theory. Two parents,” she said with a thin smile. “One child. Do you have any further information to give me?”

“Not at this time. Your daughter’s profession, Ms. Wyler. Did this cause friction in the family?”

In another of her slow, deliberate gestures, Connie smoothed down the ankle-skimming skirt of her suit. “It was not a profession I dreamed of my daughter embracing. Naturally, it was her choice.”

“Your father-in-law would have been opposed. Certainly politically opposed.”

“The senator’s views on sexual legislation are well known. As a leader of the Conservative Party, he is, of course, working to change many of the current laws regarding what is popularly called the Morality Issue.”

“Do you share his views?”

“No, I don’t, though I fail to see how that applies.”

Shaw cocked her head. Oh, there was friction there, all right. Shaw wondered if the streamlined attorney agreed with her outspoken father-in-law on anything. “Your daughter was killed—possibly by a client, possibly by a personal friend. If you and your daughter were at odds over her lifestyle, it would be unlikely she would have confided in you about professional or personal acquaintances.”

“I see.” Connie folded her hands and sat erect, obviously willing herself to think like a professional. Like the lawyer she was. “You’re assuming that, as her mother, as a woman who might have shared some of the same viewpoints, Claire would talk to me, perhaps share with me some of the more intimate details of her life.” Despite her efforts, Connie’s eyes saddened. “I’m sorry, lieutenant, but that’s not the case. Claire rarely shared anything with me. Certainly not about her business. She was… aloof, from both her father and me. Really, from her entire family.”

“You wouldn’t know if she had a particular lover—someone she was more personally involved with? One who might have been jealous?”

“No. I can tell you I don’t believe she did. Claire had…” Connie took a steadying breath. “A disdain for men. An attraction to them, yes, but an underlying disdain. She also knew very well that she could attract them. From a very early age, she knew. And she found them foolish. She didn’t seem to want to form close attachments with women, or anyone else, either.”

“She was a professional companion. How would she attract much of a client base if she felt such disdain for a large proportion of them? And, I’m sorry if this is difficult, but she seemed to be very successful.”

“She was also clever. There was nothing in her life she wanted that she didn’t find a way to have. Except happiness. She was not a happy woman,” Connie went on, swallowing hard. “I spoiled her; it’s true. I have no one to blame but myself for it. I wanted more children.” She pressed a hand to her trembling mouth until it stopped. “I was philosophically opposed to having more and my husband was very clear in his position. But that didn’t stop the emotion of wanting children to love. I loved Claire too much. The senator will tell you I smothered her, babied her, indulged her. And he would be right.”

“I would say that mothering was your privilege, not his.”

This brought a ghost of a smile to Connie’s eyes. “So were the mistakes, and I made them. Graham, too, though he loved her no less than I. When Claire moved to New York, we fought with her over it. Graham pleaded with her. I threatened her. And I pushed her away, lieutenant. She told me I didn’t understand her—never had, never would—and that I saw only what I wanted to see, unless it was in court; but what went on in my own home was invisible.”

“What did she mean?”

“That I was a better lawyer than a mother, I suppose. After she left, I was hurt, angry. I pulled back, quite certain she would come to me. She didn’t, of course.”

She stopped speaking for a moment, regret showing in her eyes. “Graham went to see her once or twice, but that didn’t work. It only upset him. We left it alone, left her alone. Until recently, when I felt we had to make a new attempt.”

“Why recently?”

“The years pass,” Connie murmured. “I’d hoped she would be growing tired of the lifestyle, perhaps have begun to regret the rift with family. I went to see her myself about a year ago. But she only became angry, defensive, then insulting when I tried to persuade her to come home. Graham, though he’d resigned himself, offered to go up and talk to her. But she refused to see him. Even Catherine tried,” she murmured and rubbed absently at a pain between her eyes. “She went to see Claire only a few weeks ago.”

“Congresswoman Hallen went to New York to see Claire?”

“Not specifically. Catherine was there for a fund-raiser and made it a point to try to talk with Claire.” Connie pressed her lips together. “I asked her to. You see, when I tried to open communications again, Claire wasn’t interested. I’d lost her,” Connie said quietly, “and moved too late to get her back, I didn’t know how to get her back. I’d hoped that Catherine could help, being family, but not her mother.” She looked over at Shaw again. “You’re thinking that I should have gone again myself. It was my place to go.”

“Ms. Wyler—”

But Connie shook her head. “You’re right, of course. But she refused to confide in me. I thought I should respect her privacy, as I always had. I was never one of those mothers who peeked into her daughter’s diary.”

“Diary?” Shaw’s brain went on high alert. “Did she keep one?”

“She always kept a diary, even as a child. On paper. She had a fountain pen and loved to write. She kept them in cases with simple little fingerprint locks on them, but they were all written on paper.”

“And as an adult?”

“Yes, she always had a current diary. She’d refer to it now and again—joke about the secrets she had and the people she knew who would be appalled at what she’d written about them.”

There’d been no paper diaries in the inventory, Shaw remembered. If the sweepers had missed one… It shouldn’t be possible, but Shaw had encountered some sloppy work in her time. Sloppiness that was never repeated once she discovered the culprit and convinced them to improve their work ethic. But there were always new people and new ways to screw up.

“Do you have any of them?”

“No.” Abruptly alert, Connie looked up. “She kept them in a deposit box, I think. She kept them all.”

“Did she use a bank here in Virginia?”

“Not that I’m aware of. I’ll check and see what I can find out for you. I can go through the things she left here.”

“I’d appreciate that. If you think of anything—anything at all—a name, a comment, no matter how casual, please contact me.”

“I will. She never spoke of friends, lieutenant. I worried about that, even as I used to hope that the lack of them would draw her back home. I even used one of my own good friends, thinking she would be more persuasive than I could be.”

“Who was that?”

“Root.” Tears came to Connie’s eyes again; she fought them back. “Just days before Claire was murdered, I called her. We’ve known each other for years. I asked her if she would arrange for Claire to be invited to a certain party I knew she’d be attending. If she’d seek her out. She was reluctant—Root isn’t one to meddle in family business. But I used our friendship. If she would just find a way to befriend her, to show her that an attractive woman doesn’t have to use her looks to feel worthwhile. Root did that for me, and for my husband.”

“You asked her to develop a relationship with Claire?” Shaw said carefully.

“I asked her to be Claire’s friend,” Connie corrected. “To be there for her. I asked her because there’s no one I trust more. Claire had cut herself off from all of us and I needed someone I could trust. Root would never hurt her, you see. She would never hurt anyone I loved.”

“Because she loves you?”

“Cares.” Graham Hallen spoke from the doorway. “Root cares very much for Connie and for me, and a few select others. But love? I’m not sure she’d let herself risk quite such a human emotion.”

“Graham.” Connie’s emotional control wobbled as she got to her feet. “I wasn’t expecting you quite yet.”

“We finished early.” He came to her, closed his hands over hers. “You should have called me, Connie.”

“I didn’t—” She broke off, looked at him helplessly. “I’d hoped to handle it alone.”

“You don’t have to handle anything alone.” He kept his hand closed over his wife’s as he turned to Shaw. “You’d be Lieutenant Shaw?”

“Yes, Mr. Hallen. I had a few questions and hoped it would be easier if I asked them in person.”

“My wife and I are willing to cooperate in any way we can.” He remained standing, a position Shaw judged as one of power and of distance.

There was none of Connie’s nervousness or fragility in the man who stood beside her. He was taking charge, Shaw decided, protecting his wife and guarding his own emotions with equal care.

“You were asking about Root,” he continued. “May I ask why?”

“I told the lieutenant that I’d asked Root to see Claire. To try to…”

“Oh, Connie.” In a gesture that was both weary and resigned, he shook his head. “What could she do? Why would you bring her into it?”

She stepped away from him, her face so filled with despair, Shaw almost could feel the pain herself. “I know you told me to let it alone, that we had to let her go. But I had to try again. Root might have connected with her, Graham. She has a way.”

Shaw managed to suppress the grunt of agreement that nearly escaped her.

Connie began to speak faster now, her words tripping over each other. “She might have helped Claire if I’d asked her sooner. With enough time, there’s very little she can’t do. But she _didn’t_ have enough time. Neither did my child.”

“All right, love,” Graham murmured, laying a hand on her arm. “All right.”

She controlled herself again, sucked the emotion back inside. “What can I do now, lieutenant, but hope for justice?”

“I will get you justice, Ms. Wyler,” Shaw said, with utter certainty.

Connie closed her eyes, seeming to cling onto Shaw’s words. “I think you will. I wasn’t sure of that, even after Root called me about you.”

Once again, Shaw went into high alert. “She called you—to discuss the case?”

“She called to see how we were—and to tell me she thought you’d be coming to see me personally before long.” She nearly smiled. “She’s rarely wrong. She told me I’d find you competent, organized, and dedicated. You are. I’m grateful I’ve had the opportunity to see that for myself and to know that you’re in charge of my daughter’s murder investigation.”

“Ms. Wyler,” Shaw hesitated only a moment before deciding to take the risk. “What if I told you Root is a suspect?”

Connie’s eyes went wide, then her expression relaxed almost immediately. “I’d say you were reaching an extraordinarily incorrect conclusion.”

“Because Root is incapable of murder?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.” Connie seemed relieved, for just a moment, to discuss the case in objective terms. “Incapable of a senseless act, definitely. She might kill cold-bloodedly, but never the defenseless. Not without a purpose. Yes, she might kill.” She gave a light snort. “I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if she had. She has a ruthless streak. But would she do to anyone what was done to Claire—before, during, after? No. Not Root.”

“No,” Graham echoed, nodding, and his hand reached for his wife’s again. “Not Root.”

* * *

_Not Root._ Shaw thought about their complete confidence when she was back in the cab and headed to the underground. Why the hell hadn’t Root told her she’d met Claire Hallen as a favor to her mother? What else hadn’t she told her?

Blackmail? Somehow, she didn’t see Root as a victim of blackmail. She wouldn’t give a single shit what was said or broadcast about her. But a diary was a document. It changed things; made blackmail a new and intriguing motive.

_Just what had Claire recorded about who and where were the goddamn diaries?_


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw finally has to go into Testing due to her termination of a killer in her previous case. 
> 
> She does not have a great time with the tests, Dr. Carter, or how Carter dredges up her past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The child murder in Shaw's previous case is described in more graphic detail in this chapter, during the simulations. And a load of abusive language from the killer.
> 
> This time @SloanGreyMercyDeath was able to give this chapter a good going-over _before_ I inflicted it on you all, including some great suggestions to fill in a little context.

“There was no problem reversing the tail,” Finch said as he broke apart one of the brick-like muffins in the eatery at Cop Central. “I saw him clock me, and then he looked around for you. But there were plenty of people milling around, lots of foot traffic, so he presumably thought we were both boarding the shuttle.”

Finch washed down the muffin with his plain green tea, grimacing slightly. He normally preferred his tea to be a little fancier, but not in this place. “I boarded the aircraft, as did he, but he was seated up in First Class. When we disembarked, he waited near the exit ramp and that’s when he realised you weren’t there.” Finch gave Shaw a slight smile. “He didn’t seem to be very happy. He made a quick call and I was able to get behind him. I trailed him as he made his way to the Regent Hotel. Unfortunately, they don’t seem to want to tell you anything at the Regent. Even the badge didn’t seem to motivate them very much.”

“So you explained, snottily, about civic duty.”

“Politely and firmly, Shaw,” said Finch, as he pushed his empty plate and cup into the recycler slot. “I was polite and firm.”

 _Snotty_. Shaw could do the interpretation herself.

“He made a couple of calls—one to East Washington, one to Virginia. Then he made a local call—to the chief.”

“Shit.”

“Yes. Chief Simmons appears to be pushing some buttons for Hallen. What buttons they are remains to be seen.”

Before Shaw could comment, her link buzzed. She pulled it out and answered the call—it was the commander.

“Shaw, be in Testing. Twenty minutes.”

“Sir, I’m meeting a snitch on the Colby matter at 0900.”

“Reschedule.” His voice was flat. “Twenty minutes.”

Slowly, Shaw replaced her link. “I guess we know one of the buttons.”

“It seems that Senator Hallen is taking a personal interest in you.” Finch studied her face. There wasn’t a cop on the force who didn’t despise Testing. “Are you okay to do the process right now?”

“Yeah, sure. This is going to tie me up most of the day, Finch. Do me a favor. Do a run on the banks in Manhattan. I need to know if Claire Hallen kept a safety deposit box. If you don’t find anything there, spread out to the other boroughs.”

“Of course.”

* * *

The Testing section was a labyrinth of long corridors, some with glass walls and some with pale green walls that were supposed to be calming. When Shaw approached the first set of reinforced glass doors, the door security system politely ordered her to surrender her weapon. Shaw took it out of her holster and set it in a security box on the tray that slid out from beside the door. She watched as the box locked itself and the tray slid back in, storing the box until she was done.

It made her feel naked, even before she entered the facility to be directed into Testing Room 1-C and told to strip. She laid her clothes on the bench by the room entrance and glanced at the machines waiting for her. She tried not to think too much about the techs watching her on their monitors or the scanners with their nastily silent movements and their impersonal nearly-blank exteriors.

The physical exam was easy. All she had to do was stand on the center mark in the tubelike room and watch the machine lights as her internal organs and bones were checked for flaws.

Next, she was permitted to don a blue jumpsuit that was laid out on a seat at the rear of the room. After dressing, she sat in the chair, and a machine angled over to examine her ears and eyes. Shaw had never been certain if this particular machine merely examined her hearing and eyesight, or whether the scan was also used to analyse eye movements and facial expressions. And mood. This time wasn't mere routine—she’d never had a completed case, even a termination, occupy her mind, her dreams, so much.

As the scanner rose towards her eyeline, she studied it as if she could discern the answer to her speculations in its blank face. Inwardly, she shook herself; if it wasn’t just an eye scan, she needed to lock it down, now.

She knew that her tiredness showed; she could only hope that helped mask her internal unrest. She did not think of the child or the murderer that she’d taken down after the killing. She focused on her pulse rate, keeping it steady, allowing her usual neutral expression to settle on her face, and she let her gaze stare through the scan sensor.

Eventually—it was only 45 seconds by her count, no longer than usual—the scan finished and the machine returned to its resting place. Finally, she laid her arm in a cradle that extended from the wall behind her, palm down in the hand-shaped slot. There was a brief sting as the blood sample was taken, and a green light glowed on the surface around her fingers, indicating the sample was accepted. She lifted her hand and the cradle slid back into its slot.

`Please exit door marked Testing 2-C. Phase one is complete, Shaw, Lieutenant Sameen.`

In the adjoining room, Shaw was instructed to lie on a padded table for the brain scan. _Guess we wouldn’t want any cops out there with a brain tumor urging them to blast civilians._ Resigning herself, she laid back and watched the techs through the glass wall as a VR headset extended into place and the signal from the needle-like i/o ports touching her scalp spliced with the electrical signals in her brain.

The headset visor went opaque. Then the simulations began.

The bench adjusted to a sitting position and she was treated to a full-immersion pursuit simulation. It put her in a vehicle during a high-speed chase. Sounds exploded in her ears: screaming sirens, shouts of conflicting orders from the dash communicator. She could see that it was a standard police unit, fully charged. The control of the vehicle was hers, and she had to swerve and maneuver to avoid flattening a variety of pedestrians the AI threw in her path.

In one part of her brain, she was aware her vitals were being monitored: blood pressure, pulse, even the amount of sweat that prickled on her skin, the saliva in her mouth. But the simulation scenario consumed most of her mind, irresistibly. 

It was hot, almost unbearably hot. She narrowly missed a food transport that lumbered into her path. She recognized her location. The old ports on the east side. She could smell them: water, bad fish, and old oil. Transients wearing their uniform of blue coveralls were looking for a handout or a day’s labor. She flew by a group of them jostling for position in front of a placement center.

`Subject armed. Rifle torch, hand explosive. Wanted for robbery, homicide.`

_Great. Fucking great._ She punched the throttle, spun the wheel around, and kissed off the fender of the target’s vehicle in a shower of sparks. A spurt of flame whooshed by her ear as the target fired at her. The proprietor of a portside roach coach dove for cover, along with several of his customers.

She rammed the target again, ordering her backup to maneuver into a pincer position. This time her quarry’s vehicle shuddered before tipping over. As he fought for control, she used her vehicle to batter his to a stop. She shouted the standard identification and warning as she bolted from the vehicle. He came out blasting and she brought him down.

The shock from her weapon jolted his nervous system. She watched him jitter, wet himself, and then collapse.

She’d hardly taken a breath to readjust when the bastard techs tossed her into a new scene. The screams, the little girl’s screams; the raging roar of the man who was her father.

They had reconstructed it almost too perfectly, using her own report, visuals of the site, and the memory trace they’d lifted during the brain scan. Shaw didn’t bother to curse them, but locked down her hate and her grief and sent herself racing up the stairs, back into her nightmare.

No more screams from the little girl. She beat on the door, calling out her name and rank. Warning the man on the other side of the door, trying to calm him.

“Cunts. You’re all cunts. Come on in, cunt bitch. I’ll kill you.”

The door broke in under her ramming shoulder. She went in fast, weapon drawn.

“She was just like her mother—just like her fucking mother. Thought they’d leave me. Thought they could get away. I fixed it. I fixed them. I’m going to fix you, cunt cop.”

The little girl was staring at her with big, empty eyes. Doll’s eyes. Her tiny, helpless body mutilated, blood spreading like a pool. Blood dripping from the knife.

She told him to freeze: “You son of a bitch, drop the weapon. _Drop the fucking knife!_ ” But he kept coming. She stunned him. But he kept coming.

The room smelled of blood, of urine, of burned food. The lights were too bright, unshaded and blinding so that everything stood out in stark relief. A doll with a missing arm on the ripped sofa, a crooked window shield that let in a hard red glow from the neon across the street, the overturned table of cheap molded plastic, the cracked screen of a broken link.

The little girl with empty eyes. The spreading pool of blood. And the sharp, sticky gleam of the blade.

“I’m going to ram this right up your cunt. Then I’m gonna keep cutting. Just like I did to her.”

Shaw hit stun again. No good. His eyes were wild, riding high on homemade Zeus, that wonderful chemical that made gods out of mere humans, with all the power and insanity that went with delusions of immortality.

The knife, with its sticky red blade, hacked down at her. She switched her weapon to lethal mode without a blink, and dropped him.

The jolt shot through his nervous system. His brain died first, so that his body convulsed and shuddered as his eyes turned to glass. Adrenaline pumping, Shaw kicked the knife away from his twitching hand and looked at the child.

The big doll’s eyes stared at her, and told her—again—that she’d been too late.

The simulation ended. Forcing her body to relax, Shaw let nothing into her mind but her report.

This testing phase was complete. Her vitals were checked again before she was taken to the final phase. The one-on-one with the psychiatrist.

* * *

Shaw didn’t have anything against Dr. Joss Carter. The woman was dedicated to her calling. In private practice, she could have earned triple the salary she pulled in at the NY Police and Security Department.

Carter’s warm, expressive voice had a mild Southern twang. Her black hair was in a relaxed, well-styled short bob that went with the stylish skirt suit she wore. Her complexion was flawless, as always, and its deep glow was set off by a rich, red lipstick. Her well-shaped arched eyebrows made her look perpetually alert, while the heavy-lidded dark eyes beneath them were compassionate yet sharp. They didn’t miss much, if anything.

Carter didn’t deal with bullshit, preferring to zero straight in on any problems as she saw them. She was very good at her work.

No, Shaw had nothing against Dr. Carter personally. She just hated shrinks.

“Lieutenant Shaw.” Carter rose from a grape-colored scoop chair when Shaw entered.

There was no desk or link in sight. One of the techniques, Shaw knew, to make the subjects relax and forget they were under intense observation.

“Doctor.” Shaw sat in the chair Carter indicated.

“I was just about to have some coffee. You’ll join me?”

“Sure.”

Carter turned to the AutoChef and ordered two coffees, both light, then brought the cups to the sitting area. “It’s unfortunate that your testing was postponed, lieutenant.” With a brief smile, she sat and took a sip. “The process is more conclusive and definitely more beneficial when run within twenty-four hours of an incident.”

“It couldn’t be helped.”

“So I’m told. Your preliminary results seem fine.”

“Great.”

“You still refuse autohypnosis?”

“It’s optional.” Shaw hated the defensive sound of her voice.

“Yes, it is.” Carter crossed her legs. “You’ve been through a difficult experience, lieutenant. There are signs of physical and emotional fatigue.”

“I’m on another case, a demanding one. It’s taking a lot of my time.”

“Yes, I read about that in your notes. Are you taking the standard sleep inducers?”

Shaw took a long swallow of her coffee, hearing a warning in Carter’s mention of her notes. “No. We’ve been through that before. Night pills are optional, and I opt no.”

“Because they limit your control.”

Shaw met her eyes. “That’s right. I don’t like being put to sleep, and I don’t like being here. I don’t like my brain being dissected.”

“You feel like Testing is a kind of dissection?”

There wasn’t a cop who didn’t and plenty of them that had stronger terms for the process. “I’m not choosing this procedure, am I?”

Carter kept her sigh to herself. “The termination of a subject, no matter the circumstances, is a traumatic experience for a police officer. If the trauma affects emotions, reactions, attitude, the officer’s performance will suffer. We also need to make sure there are no physical problems that might lead to poor judgement.”

“I know the company line, doctor. I’m cooperating fully. But I don’t have to like it.”

“No, you don’t.” Carter gave her a sharp look. “Lieutenant, this is your second termination. It’s not an unusual number for an officer with your length of service, but there are plenty who never need to make that decision even once. I want to know how you feel about the choice you made and the consequences of that decision.”

 _I wish I’d been quicker. I wish that child was playing with her toys right now instead of being cremated._

“Since my only choices were to let him carve me to pieces or stop him, I feel just fine about the decision. My warning was issued and ignored. Stunning was ineffective. The evidence that he would have zero problem killing was lying on the floor between us in a puddle of blood. So I’ve got no problem with the consequences.”

“You were disturbed by the death of the child?”

“Anyone would be disturbed by the death of a child. Especially that kind of vicious murder of the completely defenseless.”

“And do you see the parallel between the child and yourself?” Carter asked quietly. She could see Shaw draw in and close off. “Lieutenant, we both know I’m fully aware of your background. You were abused, physically, sexually, and emotionally. You were abandoned when you were ten.”

“That has nothing to do with—”

“I think it might have plenty to do with your mental and emotional state,” Carter interrupted. “For a year after you were found, you lived in a communal home while your parents were searched for. You only have fragmentary memories of your very early life, before the age of five, definitely before school age. You don’t remember any of your circumstances, much of your parents—other than a few short memories of your mother—or your birthplace.”

Carter’s eyes were sharp and searching. “You were given the last name ‘Shaw’ by the foster organisation and eventually placed in home care. More than one home during those years. Many schools. You had no control over any of this, nor did you until you reached the legal age of maturity. You were a battered child, dependent on the system. That system failed you, in many ways.”

Shaw bent her will on keeping her eyes and voice level. “As I, part of the same system now, failed to protect the child. You want to know how I feel about that, Dr. Carter?”

_Wretched. Sick. Sorry._

“I feel that I did everything I could do. I went through your simulations and did it all over again. Because there was no changing it. If I could have saved the child, I would have saved her. If I could have arrested the subject, I would have.”

“But those outcomes were not in your control.”

 _Sneaky bitch. Way to bring it home._ “It was in my control to terminate,” Shaw said, in her most professional tone, her eyes on Carter’s, chin firm. “After employing all standard options, I exercised that control. In line with the obligations and responsibilities of my job. You’ve reviewed the report. It was a clean, justifiable termination.” 

Carter said nothing for a moment, pinning Shaw with her gaze. Her skills, she knew, had never been able to make much impression on Shaw’s defenses. Even when she used tactics that she personally found distasteful in an attempt to break through. “Very well, lieutenant. You’re cleared to resume duty without restriction.” Carter held up a hand before Shaw could rise. “Off the record.”

“Is anything?”

Carter only smiled. “The mind often protects itself after a huge trauma. Yours refuses to acknowledge the missing six years of your life. But those years are a part of you. I can get them back for you when you’re ready. And Sameen,” she added, a slight huskiness entering her voice from her emphasis, “I can help you deal with them.”

“I’ve made myself what I am, and I can live with that. Maybe I don’t want to risk living with the rest.” Shaw got up and walked to the door. When she turned back, Carter was sitting just as she had been, legs crossed, one hand holding her coffee cup.

“A hypothetical case,” Shaw began and waited for Carter’s nod.

“A woman, with considerable social and financial advantages, chooses to become a sex worker.” Carter waited. “Not only did she make it her profession, she apparently went out of her way to flaunt it at her well-positioned family, including her arch-conservative grandfather. Why?”

“It’s hard to come up with one specific motive from such sketchy information. The most obvious would be the subject could only find her self-worth in her sexual skills. She either enjoyed or detested the act.”

Intrigued, Shaw stepped away from the door. “If she detested it, why would she become a pro?”

“To punish.”

“Herself?”

“Certainly, and those close to her.”

 _To punish. The diary. Blackmail._ A pattern was definitely forming in Shaw’s mind.

“Someone kills a sex worker,” she continued. “Brutally. The killing is in a sexual context and executed in a unique and distinctive fashion. The killer records it. They are able to bypass a sophisticated security system. A recording of the murder is delivered to the investigating officer. A message is left at the scene, a boastful message. What kind of individual is this?”

“You don’t give me much,” Carter demurred, but Shaw could see her attention was caught. “Inventive,” she began. “A planner, and a voyeur. Confident, perhaps smug. You said distinctive, so they want to leave their mark, show off their skill, intelligence. From your observations, lieutenant, did they enjoy the act of murder?”

“Yeah. I think they were thrilled with it.”

Carter nodded. “Then they’ll want that thrill again.”

“The killer’s already had it. Two murders, barely a week apart. They’ve indicated there will be more. There won’t be a long wait until the next, will there?”

“Unlikely.” Carter sipped her coffee as if they were discussing the latest spring fashions. “Are the two murders connected in any way other than the perpetrator and the method?”

“Sex,” Shaw said bluntly.

“Uh huh.” Carter tilted her head. “With all our technology, with all that we know about genetics, we still can’t control our virtues and flaws. Perhaps we humans can’t be fundamentally changed in some ways. Passion is necessary to the human spirit. We learned that early this century when genetic engineering nearly slipped out of control. But some passions get shifted out of the norm. Sex and violence—for some, it’s a natural combination.” She stood, picking up the coffee cups, and glanced at Shaw. “And for others, that combination is warped further with the urge to do real harm, to destroy.”

She took a couple of steps to place the cups by the AutoChef. “I’d be interested in knowing more about this killer, lieutenant. If and when you decide you want a profile, I hope you’ll come to me.”

“It’s Code Five.”

Returning to the sitting area, Carter took a seat again and looked up at Shaw. “I see.”

“If we don’t tie this up before the killer hits again, I may be able to swing it.”

“I’ll make myself available.”

“Thanks.”

“Sameen, even strong, self-made people have weak spots. Don’t be afraid of them.”

Shaw held Carter’s gaze for another moment. “I’ve got work to do.” She turned and walked away.

* * *

Testing left her jittery. Shaw compensated by being surly and antagonistic with her snitch and nearly losing a lead on a case involving bootlegged chemicals. Her mood was far from cheerful when she checked back in to Cop Central. There was no message from Finch.

The others in her department knew just where she’d spent the day and did their best to stay out of her way. As a result, she worked in solitude and annoyance for an hour.

Her last effort was to put through a call to Root. She was neither surprised nor particularly disappointed when she wasn’t available. She left a message requesting an appointment, then logged out for the day.

She planned to drown her mood in cheap liquor at Fusco’s latest gig at the Blue Squirrel. The place was a dive in the old Garment District; anonymous and unfancy. The perfect venue to anesthetize the remnants of Carter’s “counselling” session. Shaw shoved her gear into a small backpack and decided to walk the few blocks from the precinct.

As she walked into the club, Shaw snarled off the offer from a guy lurking near the door to buy her a drink in one of the private smoking booths. She jockeyed her way to a table, entered an order for a screamer into the table screen, and settled back to watch Fusco perform.

He wasn’t half bad, Shaw decided. Some of the audience were actually watching his routine and a few of them laughed at a couple of the jokes.

Shaw watched a small, sealed package pass from hand to hand between a couple of people at a table. Drugs, of course. They’d tried a war on them, legalizing them, ignoring them, and regulating them. Nothing seemed to make any difference.

She couldn’t raise the interest to make a bust and lifted a hand in a wave to Fusco. He wound up his story, getting a few more laughs this time, and announced a quick break. There were a few claps as Fusco left the stage, and he headed over to sit at Shaw’s table.

“Hey Miss Demeanor, how’s it shaking?”

She tipped her glass at him in a small salute. “Nice routine, Fusco. A couple of new ones in there.”

“Yeah, I’ve been working on a few,” he said gruffly, looking a little bashful. He looked at her glass. “You’re drinking a screamer? You want me to find a hammer and just knock you unconscious instead? At least you’ll still have a stomach lining after.”

“It’s been a shitty day,” Shaw muttered and took the first shocking sip. “Jesus. These never get any better.”

Fusco gave her a look. “I can make my break a little longer, hang out a while.”

“No, I’m okay.” Shaw risked her life with another sip. “I just wanted to check out your gig, let off some steam. Lionel, you’re not using the bad junk, are you?”

“Hey, come on.” More concerned than insulted, Fusco shook Shaw’s shoulder. “I’m clean, you know that. Some shit gets passed around in here, but it’s all minor league. Some happy pills, some calmers, a few mood patches.” His face closed in. “If you’re looking to make a bust, you could at least do it on my night off.”

“Sorry.” Annoyed with herself, Shaw rubbed her hands over her face. “I’m not fit for human consumption at the moment.” She made an abrupt decision. “Look, I’m going to cut out and let you get on with your set. You’re doing good—you don’t need me hanging around with a bad vibe.”

“Jesus, do I smell bad or something? You haven’t even finished your drink. Although that’s probably for the best,” he added. “C’mon, stay a little longer. I’ve got a few more good ones you haven’t heard yet.”

“Ah, I’m too pissy–I need to clear my head. I’ll be a better audience next time.”

He grimaced in understanding and nodded. Shaw kept her promises.

“Hey, can I use the dressing room on my way out?” she asked. “I want to get changed, go for a run.”

“Around here?” Fusco’s eyebrows headed for his hairline. “What the hell for?”

“Change of scenery will do me good, maybe.”

“Uh huh, sure. I’m not going to tell you to stay safe, but maybe don’t do anything stupid to get yourself into trouble.” He sent her a code from his link. “That’ll get you in—no-one else should be using it tonight. Tell the boss I said so if he busts you.”

“Thanks. I’ll tag you when I’m in a better mood, okay?”

“Sure, but don't take too long.” He gave her a concerned frown as they got up from the table. “I’ll be pissed if I have to tag _you_.”

Shaw gave him a loose salute with two fingers by her forehead as she grabbed her backpack and headed for the backstage area.

Minutes later, she was in body-skimming black exercise shorts and tank, backpack strapped on tightly, running through the deepening twilight at a good pace up 9th towards Hell’s Kitchen. It was just a few klicks, but she wanted to dump off some excess energy before she got to her destination. Running there was as good a way as any.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully by now, if you've been thinking Shaw's been acting a bit more vulnerable than you'd expect, you're getting a little inkling as to why that might be the case. I think of this Shaw as being more like the Shaw that had been through Samaritan's simulations. Not because of the Testing simulations that happen in this chapter, but the old stuff that Carter alludes to, which combines with the effects of the last case in a difficult way.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw heads out for some R and R and has an unexpected encounter. TWO unexpected encounters.
> 
> Very little plot, some kinky smutty times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a gratuitous insert and is pretty much all mine, incorporating maybe a dozen lines from the original.
> 
> @[SloanGreyMercyDeath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SloanGreyMercyDeath) was super helpful with this one by helping me make a good decision on structure, which makes it significantly better than it might have been.
> 
> So we have some kink in here, pretty mild, and some sexing, which is a little kinky too, but with most of everyone's clothes on. 
> 
> The kinky part happens in between the first and second scene breaks - it's not too graphic and very brief. A little discussion of the after effects on Shaw afterwards, though. The third scene break is where the rest of the action occurs, till almost the end. 
> 
> If you want to skip ALL that and just get a plot update, notes at the end will fill you in.

# Chapter 10

Fifteen minutes later, Shaw was standing on West 48th St, looking at a nondescript brick building that only had the word _Nemesis_ in a small purple holograph by the entrance to distinguish it. She’d taken a slight detour to run along the Hudson past the ferry buildings, the river’s smell distinctive, but not actively unpleasant these days. The run hadn’t been enough to get her out of breath, but the blood was moving nicely through her body and she felt limbered up. 

She hadn't been by the building for the last couple of years and a new owner had since taken it over. Shaw had heard through the grapevine that the owner had named it after themselves; there were worse names. 

Shaw had a lot of fond memories of the place, but between some minor drama there and the increasing demands of her career, staying away had seemed easier for a time. Right now, though, she needed to get the crap out of her head. Assuming some of the old crowd was still here, this place was the best way she was going to get that done. 

Maybe other people liked to go bowling or immerse themselves in full-sim games or watch arena ball. Shaw, when it came to it, liked working out and clubs. Kinky clubs. Full of her kind of people partying in all kinds of ways. Hot outfits. Physical and mental challenges. A place where you could lose yourself in pleasure. And pain. A small shiver went through her at the ghost sensation of a few almost-physical memories in her body. 

She had to admit she’d missed this place. She snorted at the thought; she also had to admit she was being uncharacteristically hesitant. _Time to buckle up, Sam._

She crossed the street and entered the club. At a quick glance, the basic layout seemed much the same, but some of the decor had been freshened. She could hear the pulse of moderately-loud music from the main floor, and she inhaled sharply, her anticipation rising. The front desk was directly opposite the entrance, a dim purple light illuminating the area. Shaw did a double-take when she saw who was staffing it and nearly groaned aloud. _Can’t I catch one fucking break today?_

Before she could spin on her heel and make a quick exit, Jeremy Lambert looked up and spotted her. “Hello, sweetheart,” he said in his smarmy British accent. “Given up on fighting crime? Here to slum with we depraved sinners and commit some of your own? It’s been a while.” 

Shaw, of course, could not beat a retreat in the face of this challenge, so she headed on in. 

She and Lambert had made the mistake of fucking each other once, and neither of them had enjoyed the experience. No harm, no foul from Shaw’s point of view, but the asshole would not stop needling her about it whenever he saw her. She _may_ have suggested to him that if she kept seeing his weaselly face anywhere near hers, crimes might be committed. Somehow he’d missed the sarcasm—though the bodily harm threat was real—and interpreted the whole thing as her getting all moralistic with him because she was a _cop_. 

It was bullshit, but Shaw would rather not deal with the dickhead spinning her threats the wrong way or the temptation to commit misdemeanor assault when she was trying to have some fun. So she stayed away and picked up the occasional fuck/play partner elsewhere when she needed to scratch the itch. 

“Yeah, it’s been a while. For some reason, I prefer places where the door bitches don’t give you attitude before you’ve even paid them,” she snapped back. 

“I think you’re confused about where the _attitude_ is coming from. I also regret to inform you that this isn’t the gym,” he said, all sarcasm. “I assume that’s what you’re looking for, given your present attire.” 

“For real?” Shaw rolled her eyes, although mostly at herself. She didn’t have any other clothes than what she wore to Cop Central today, and she kicked herself internally for being so distracted that her clothing didn’t cross her mind before she ditched Lionel’s gig. 

“Tsk.” Lambert went on, condescendingly. “You should know by now we don’t let people in with just streetwear on. Or have the bittersweet memories faded away already?” 

Shaw was _over it_. Dumping her backpack on the floor, she pulled off her tank and sports bra in one movement and stood there bare-breasted, with only her small shorts and tac boots on. 

“How about now?” 

“Adequate, I suppose,” he said, looking down his snotty British nose at her tits. “At least your clothing—such as it is—is black.” 

“You know what, fuck you, Jer—” 

He cut her off. “I go by Sarx now, when I’m here.” 

“What kind of name is that?” Shaw would ordinarily be a little less rude about someone’s handle, but Lambert and his opinion of her could go screw themselves. 

“The boss gave it to me,” he said, his snotty attitude instantly evaporating and he looked …proud? Shaw managed to keep the surprise off her face. He continued, with a small smile. “It’s Greek, from the Bible—it means ‘flesh and blood’.” 

“Yeah, I had noticed you weren’t particularly godlike.” Shaw couldn’t resist the line, but she said it with a little less bite. 

He laughed, and Shaw nearly fell over from the shock. “No,” he said. “But it’s good to have a reminder sometimes.” 

He rubbed a thumb over the back of one wrist as he said it, and Shaw abruptly noticed the regular lines of surgically-neat healed and healing cuts over his forearms—which were still attractive, annoyingly, and the cuts looked good there—and up over what Shaw could see of his biceps before they disappeared under his short-sleeved military-style blue shirt. 

_Looks like someone’s been giving him a few lessons._ Shaw recalled with amusement that his previous handle had been ‘AlphaDog’. One of their bones of contention—ha—had been the fact she refused to address him as such after their bad encounter. It had been false advertising, for chrissakes. 

“Been a few changes around here with the new owner?” 

“Yes,” he smiled again. Shaw was beginning to get used to the smile, but it was still weird. “There were a few adjustments when Nemesis acquired the place, but after the dust settled, things have worked out for the best. I’ve been promoted as the one of the night managers, and she and I work quite closely together.” 

_She. New owner’s a woman, huh._ Shaw raised an eyebrow. “Close, is it?” 

Lambert looked taken aback. “Oh no, it’s not at all like that. She’s granted me high responsibility and it’s an honour I’m very appreciative of. We’re friendly, but we’re professionally friendly.” 

Lambert was getting positively chatty in this brave new world of his. There definitely had been a few attitude adjustments since his and Shaw's last encounter. 

“She’s completely turned this place around, and I’m very grateful. Anyway, let’s get you checked in,” he said more briskly. “Sorry for my earlier reaction, bad habits sometimes die hard. I’ll make up for it later.” Another one of those quietly blissed-out smiles appeared on his face. 

“Sure,” she said. She still didn’t give a shit about his opinion, but no complaints about one less annoyance when she was trying to get some R and R. 

“Indigo still your handle?” She nodded. “Righto.” He took her payment and gave her a locker code. 

She stuffed the tank and bra she was still holding into her backpack, and as she turned to enter the club proper, he spoke once more: “Hey, Shaw.” 

“Yeah?” she said, turning her head to look at him. 

“I’ve learned some new things about myself recently and I also realised what a prize wanker I was sometimes. Hope we see you around the place a little more without a certain knobhead being a constant pain in the arse toward you.” 

Shaw was at a loss. “Yeah, sure, Jeremy,” she said. She could not think of another thing to say in the face of his apparent sincerity. 

He grinned and waved her off. “Have a marvellous evening, Indigo.” 

“Sure, uh, Sarx,” she said, and escaped into the main floor of the club. 

The place seemed to be busy, but not jam-packed, which Shaw preferred. Enough talent to choose from, but also enough room to move. She crossed the main floor through the crowd, glancing at the stage as she headed toward the lockers. A couple of people were doing a very ornate rope bondage scene—it looked great, but Shaw wasn’t nerdy enough to want to watch the whole thing, which would take a while yet. She’d rather be doing. Or be done. 

She took her hair out of its ponytail and brushed it out a little with the spare brush she kept in her backpack. Quick check in the mirror, a little freshening-up of lip paint, eyeliner was still ok, not too bad. Leaving her backpack in a locker, she returned to the main space, skirting the rope geek crowd, and went up the first flight of stairs. The mezzanine was more of a space for lookie-loos and Shaw definitely wanted some action tonight, so she made a beeline for the next staircase. 

A few familiar faces greeted her as she walked by, so the new management had held onto at least some of the old patrons. Shaw was beginning to feel optimistic there would be one or two particular people around that she’d like run into. She gave the greeters a quick reverse nod in acknowledgement, not stopping for conversation, and headed up the next set of stairs. 

She looked around as she walked out into the third level and was pleased to see no-one on the smaller stage there and plenty of room on the main floor. Some equipment was out on display, a St Andrew’s cross, a spanking bench, and a few other items, but none were in use yet. It was still early. She headed to the bar—the barkeep wasn’t anyone she recognised—and ordered a Balvenie, straight up. It arrived promptly, and she hopped up on a stool and swiveled it so she could rest an elbow on the bar behind her, sipping her Scotch as she examined the crowd. 

She was wearing the least amount of clothing of anyone in the room, at least for now, and her semi-exposed position gave everyone a good view of her naked torso and legs. More than one person seemed to be eyeing up her breasts, or arm muscles, or both. Keeping a neutral face on, Shaw shifted position a little just to see if anyone was paying attention to her abs. Given the more avid stares on a few nearby faces, some definitely were. Things were really starting to improve. She took another sip of her whiskey, maintaining her cool expression as she glanced here and there at a few prospects through her lowered eyelashes. 

“Hello, Indigo,” said a resonant, masculine voice beside her. “It’s been a while. Seems like you still enjoy playing with the crowd.” 

Shaw turned and dropped the cool facade, giving Collier a big smile. He was one of the few people who seemed to go by his real name here and Shaw had had some good times with him. 

“Seems like you still enjoy sneaking up on people, Peter,” she said, giving a light punch to his solid deltoid. He was a fit, well-spoken man, his hair sharp in a No. 1 cut. He was wearing a tight-fitting olive-green tee that showed off his impressive pecs, while looking great against his skin tone, and combat pants in the same shade that showed off his tight ass. Shaw sighed just a tiny bit inside as she looked up at him. They’d never had sex—he didn’t seem to swing that way—but he was an excellent play partner. 

“A subtle approach has its uses sometimes,” he remarked. Shaw snorted mockingly. He gave her a long look up and down, taking in her semi-naked form. “And sometimes it doesn’t. It seems like you’re not here to just socialise, Indigo.” 

She grunted in acknowledgement. “No. It’s been a pisser of a day and I need to kick it out of my head. I was hoping I might see you around.” 

He gave her a warm smile. “That’s a compliment. I don’t have much gear with me this evening, but Stu was waving around a new flogger he had custom-made. How about it?” 

Shaw gave him a big grin back—the evening was definitely getting better by the minute. “That sounds just fine.” 

“How about you find somewhere for us to get set up and I’ll be back in a second.” 

“Sure.” 

Collier moved off to the other end of the room and Shaw looked around for somewhere with plenty of room to swing. She twisted her hair into a loose coil in front of her (cursing the fact she’d absent-mindedly tossed her hair tie into her backpack earlier) as she considered the space. She wasn’t in the mood for restraints after her grilling from Carter and the St Andrew’s cross didn’t have much appeal. The bar area had been slowly filling up, but there was still room by the stage. Directly in front of it was a concrete column, right in the centre of the room. Shaw smiled to herself. _What the hell, let’s give the people a show._

* * *

Collier, now carrying a heavy-looking flogger, found her with no trouble shortly after. Shaw twitched a little as she glanced at the weight of it in his hand. 

“No frills, good,” he commented, looking at the column. “This is latex,” he continued, giving the flogger’s falls a little shake, before tucking the handle under his belt and folding his muscled arms. “Very dense and a lot of sting. Any problems with that?” 

She shook her head, her mouth gone a little dry. “Nope, sounds good.” 

“Great. Guessing you don’t want any other equipment.” She shook her head again. “Only contact with the flogger? I recall you liked being tossed around a little.” 

“No, more contact is fine.” 

“Good,” he said and immediately grabbed her. She grunted as he spun her around, making use of his height and strength to twist her arm in a lock behind her back. He pushed her hard against the column with his other hand on her shoulder, the grit of the cold concrete lightly scuffing her cheek. If Shaw was in cop mode, she could take him down in 5 seconds flat. But right now, yeah, she wanted a little tossing around. 

He pulled her away from the column a little, kicked her feet further apart with his own, and raised both of her hands to head-height, forcing them against the concrete. “You know what to do,” he said calmly, hands still over hers. “Hold the position. Say ‘stop’ when you need to. Both hands off mean stop, too. ‘Wait’ or one hand up to check in. Or traffic lights.” 

Shaw nodded, eyes closed, and tilted her head forward. “Yeah.” 

“Okay,” he said. He took his hands off hers, gently brushed a few loose strands of hair forward over her shoulder with the rest, and stepped back. 

Seconds later, the monumental slap of the flogger hitting her back rocked her forward on her toes, the hot pain blossoming over her skin in its wake. Collier obviously wasn’t going to play around with any warm-up; he knew her capabilities well. The next stinging impact had her laughing aloud with the overwhelming rush of sensation. She wiggled her feet apart just a little more for stability and settled in for the ride. 

* * *

Half an hour or so later, Shaw was up on the rooftop level, another whiskey in her hand, looking out over the city lights. Her back pulsed gently with the heat from the flogging that Collier had given her, and she mostly felt pleasantly turned on and buzzed. 

But something still felt antsy inside of her, something that the endorphins and arousal couldn’t touch. No problem with Collier’s style—he was great at what he did—but she still had a sense of unrest deep in her gut. She hadn’t reached her usual kind of catharsis during a session of that intensity, to Collier’s evident disappointment, which he’d politely suppressed once he brought it to an end. She’d given him a hug with her genuine thanks and moved off shortly after they were done. 

Another time, probably. Tonight, she just hadn’t been able to fully let her mind go with her body. Though maybe that was for the best right now. Shaw shivered slightly despite the warmth in her back, and belatedly realised the night was growing cold and so was she. 

_Time to go home. Tomorrow’s another day_. Maybe there would be some breakthrough in the case to put her gut to rest. 

She tossed back the last of her whiskey and sighed, turning away from the city lights. She detoured by the bar to leave her glass at the bussing station and headed toward the staircase. 

She’d only taken a few steps past the bar when someone grabbed her from a side corridor and swung her around so that her back thudded against the wall, lighting up the pain again. Shaw’s reflexes were a little slow from the endorphins, so it was fortunate that she didn’t land a punch right in the Cheshire Cat grin that emerged in the dim light, which she barely recognised in time. 

“This is a pleasant surprise, lieutenant.” 

Shaw blinked, unclenched her fist, and stared back up at Root. “Every time I turn around.” 

Root propped a shoulder casually against the wall next to Shaw, leaning just a tiny bit too close. She was wearing close-fitting glossy black pants in some kind of high-tech leather analogue that accentuated every centimeter of those long, long legs. On top, she wore an equally well-fitting vest of the same material, a single catch holding it closed over her breasts. Tiny, almost invisible pinpoint golden lights were scattered through the material, their shimmer subtly catching the eye. Her arms were bare, but she wore her metallic mesh gloves on both hands. Riding low down on her hips was what Shaw could only think of as a _utility belt_ , with a couple of sleek pouches and other items—including a sheathed knife—clipped to it. 

The whole outfit suited Root right down to the ground. She looked _hot_ , fuck it. Shaw reminded herself firmly that she was still amped up from her session with Collier. Her arousal kicking up a notch and flushing her cheeks at the sight of the taller woman was just an annoyance. Something to be ignored. 

Root smiled flirtatiously at Shaw, eyes lingering just a little over her bare breasts and arms. “I got the message you left for me earlier. Unfortunately, I was caught up in business until just a short time ago. I was planning to get back to you tomorrow, since I didn’t think it was so urgent that you’d come hunt me down this evening.” Her eyes drifted all over Shaw again. “Although it seems you had more than one purpose for your visit.” 

“The message was to make an appointment with you concerning a couple of matters, Root, not to play around. I’m just here to relax. Why the hell are _you_ here?” Shaw wasn’t actually surprised to learn Root frequented a kink club, given her taste in home decor, hobbies, and a certain kind of attitude she’d …detected. But it was piss-poor timing. To say the least. 

“Why am _I_ here?” Root repeated, in surprise. “I thought you knew already. This is _my_ place.” 

Shaw blinked again, then shook her head in exasperation. _Of course she owns this goddamn slice of the universe as well._

“ _You’re_ Nemesis? Oh god,” she groaned, briefly touching two fingers between her eyes. “Gotta say, though, it’s pretty apt.” 

Root smirked and leaned in a little closer. “Really, _Indigo_? I haven’t noticed that you’re especially guilty of hubris. Other sins come to mind first.” 

“I think it’s apt,” retorted Shaw, with an eye roll, “because hubris is exactly what I think of when _you’re_ around. A warning to yourself, is it?” 

Root’s face went completely blank for a millisecond before she laughed aloud, sharp incisors appearing as she did so. 

“So she bites too.” Root’s eyes sparkled down at Shaw. “How astute of you to realise what no-one else has so far.” 

“I do more than bite,” Shaw said, raising her chin and staring straight back at her, knowing she was provoking the other woman, teasing, but unable to stop herself. 

Root’s smile only got wider. Almost verging on the _dorkiness_ again, Shaw thought to herself. 

Root’s free hand rose up from where it was hooked over her belt and she ran her thumb slowly along Shaw’s jawline. “Well, sweetie,” she purred in her lowest tones, all dorkiness vanishing beneath an expression of frank appraisal as she gazed at Shaw. “We will just have to see what you’re capable of.” 

Shaw shivered. For just a little too long, her eyes irresistibly fixed on Root’s. 

Swallowing hard, she willed herself to lock it down. _It’s not the time for this._ She doggedly pushed herself away from the wall. And Root. 

“What I’m capable of right now is asking a few questions,” she said curtly, giving Root a _hands off_ glare. 

Root’s brow furrowed, her smile disappearing. “I don’t think now is a great time. We can talk about it tomorrow.” 

“I like now better,” said Shaw stubbornly. “I went to see Connie Wyler yesterday.” 

“I know.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me that she’d asked you to meet Claire, to talk to her?” 

Root sighed in resignation. “Okay, Shaw. Somewhere a little more private, please. I have a quiet space just along here.” 

She strode along the corridor a few meters, Shaw following close behind, and waved a door open. She gestured Shaw inside first and came in after her, closing the door. The sound from the rest of the club instantly muted. Shaw glanced around to see some furniture and various kinky accoutrements scattered around the room, and that no-one else was present. 

Root went over to a minibar and ordered two fizzy drinks. “We won’t be disturbed here,” she said, returning to Shaw and handing her one of the fizzies without asking. “This is my private salon. We could get a little more comfortable while we talk.” She gestured at the two sofas near them. 

Shaw shook her head and took a sip of the fizzy. It was cold, refreshing, and she suddenly realised that she was parched. She guzzled it down in one, putting the empty glass on top of a long storage unit that was mounted on the wall. It had a few interesting items arranged on its top that Shaw chose not to comment on. 

“Thanks. This shouldn’t take long.” 

Root gave another brief sigh. She rested a hip on the back of one of the low sofas and took a long swallow of her own fizzy. 

“You were telling me why you didn’t mention you’d met with Claire at Ms. Wyler’s instigation,” said Shaw, leaning back on the storage unit. 

“Because Connie asked me in confidence.” 

“What’s your relationship with Connie Wyler?” 

“We’re friends.” Root gave her a look. “I have a few. She and Graham are among them.” 

“And the senator?” 

“I hate his fucking pompous, hypocritical guts,” Root said calmly. “If he gets his party’s nomination for president, I’ll put everything I’ve got into his opponent’s campaign. Even if it’s the devil itself.” 

“You should learn to speak your mind, Root,” Shaw said with a ghost of a smile. “Did you know that Claire kept a diary?” 

“It’s a natural assumption. She was a businessperson.” 

“I’m not talking about a log, business records. A diary, a personal diary. Secrets, Root. Blackmail.” 

Root remained silent for a few moments as she turned the idea over. “So. You found your motive.” 

“That remains to be seen. _You_ have a lot of secrets, Root.” 

She let out a half laugh. “Do you really think I’d be a victim of blackmail, Shaw? That some lost, pitiful woman like Claire could unearth information that you can’t and use it against me?” 

“No.” 

“Something we agree on.” Root gave her a small smirk. She finished her fizzy and took a couple of steps over to place her glass by Shaw’s on the storage unit. She turned to face her and tilted her head to one side, waiting for Shaw’s next question. 

* * *

Shaw had unexpectedly been rendered silent, despite the other matter she’d wanted to discuss. The lithe way in which Root moved as she leaned to place the glass, her proximity less than an arm span from Shaw, even Root’s expression as she straightened and turned to face her—it hit her all at once, completely screwing her focus. No, her focus was fine. It had just shifted to another part of her anatomy, her lingering arousal from earlier spiked again by the sight of Root’s ass in those tight pants, how her hair swung around her face as she’d leaned over, the way the tip of her nose peeked out past her hair, her lush mouth with its slightly curved lips as she’d looked back at Shaw, and the intensely mouthwatering smell of her subtle spicy perfume and personal aroma reaching Shaw’s nose all at once. 

“Speaking of secrets, or the non-existence of them in a place where I have surveillance systems, I saw you making use of Collier’s services,” said Root after a slight pause, giving her a meaningful smile and seeming to divine that Shaw's attention was no longer entirely professional. “Pure luck for me, obviously not the first time for you.” 

Shaw shook her head in response, still unable to say anything. 

“Are you uncomfortable with me having seen that?” Root asked, a hint of concern in her expression. 

Shaw managed to force her brain into gear, a little. “No, I don’t mind being watched,” she said. “Not even by your surveillance system and whoever might be creeping on me through it.” 

Root gave a smug smile. “No, and I doubt you’d indulge yourself at a venue like this if the public aspect didn’t have its own appeal as well.” 

Shaw didn’t quite blush, but something like a smirk appeared on her own face. “No.” 

Root’s eyes flicked toward Shaw’s back, where the swollen skin was prickly with heat and beginning to throb in earnest. “It was quite a sight to see. He went right in with zero restraint, unlike his usual style. He seemed very effective for you.” 

Shaw could only nod again, once. 

Root lifted a hand, the mesh on it reflecting little points of light, and gestured behind Shaw. “May I?” 

The _attention_ , the idea of Root knowing what she liked, watching her being worked over by Collier, seeing her response to it, Root wanting to see the marks now on her body—it all combined to stoke the heat mounting inside of her, her nipples going hard in anticipation. 

“Yes.” Shaw nodded again, her blood pulsing in her veins. She still wanted something more after the flogging. Maybe even something more from Root. Maybe even especially from Root. 

Shaw turned her back toward Root and rested a hand on the storage unit. Root stepped a little closer and placed both hands over Shaw’s shoulders, the slight coolness from the mesh contrasting with the heat under Shaw’s skin. “Mm,” she murmured in a considering way, “it’s puffed up a fair amount, nice even color, no broken skin or bruises. Feeling tender?” 

Shaw pretty much knew what was going to happen as soon as she acknowledged Root’s remark, but… she wanted it to. “Uh huh,” she said, forcing a casual tone, and let her head drop forward a little. 

Root immediately dragged the fingertips of both mesh-encased hands _hard_ down each side of Shaw’s painful back, their slight abrasiveness scoring intense lines of fire in their wake. An intense groan escaped Shaw’s mouth as the overwhelming sensation sent a hot surge of pleasure straight between her thighs, fanning her arousal to throbbing heat. 

She panted hard for a few moments, her hand gripping the storage unit, willing her knees to remain firm. Root gave a brief hum of pleasure as she rested her hands on Shaw’s hips and moved in close. The cool leather-like material hugging her thighs and pelvis made deliberate contact with Shaw’s ass, and her hair lightly tickled Shaw’s shoulder as she bent toward her ear. “Looks like someone else here might be effective for you,” she purred. 

The sultry tone and warm chuckle that accompanied her words had Shaw quivering again, almost uncontrollably, and she could feel herself teetering on the edge. On the edge of _what_ , though, she was disturbingly unsure. Pulling together the last shreds of her reserves, she pivoted out of Root’s light hold, turning to face her. She had to get her shit together and get out of the place before she lost it. Lost _something_. Like her dignity, maybe. Or her sanity. 

Trying for a normal tone, although she could feel her flushed cheeks belying it, she gestured at the mesh on Root’s hands. “So what’s with the nerd gear at your kinky sex palace?” she said. “Got some business to attend to, maybe?” 

Root tilted her head slightly to the right and gave her a knowing smile. “Well, now, Sam,” she said, still with a purr in her voice, “that sounded downright inhospitable. A girl might think you were trying to get rid of her.” 

Shaw firmed her chin. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from anything important,” she said shortly. “I was just a little curious.” 

“We all know what curiosity did to the cat.” Root laughed as Shaw scowled at her. “The most important thing right now is the business I have with you, Shaw. But since you ask, I’ve made a few fun alterations to these—they’re not just for tech work.” 

She raised up both hands like a surgeon about to step into the operating theatre and briefly touched both middle fingers to her thumbs. The mesh lit up with faint golden pinpoints of light, shimmering all over in a subdued glow. Smiling in her slightly mad-scientist way, she brought two fingertips of each hand slowly together, until blue sparks erupted between them with an audible crackle. 

Shaw swallowed, once again flexing her leg muscles to keep them steady as her heart rate leapt in response. Root tossed her head, her hair shifting around her elegant neck, and laughed in delight at Shaw’s reaction. “Still curious, Sameen?” She cocked an eyebrow meaningfully, her large eyes shining at Shaw, her lush ruby mouth smiling in anticipation. 

_Oh, fuck you, Root. Fuck. You._

Shaw was done, past the point of no return, off the edge, free-falling into the void. She knew she shouldn’t, knew that her reserves were gone, physically, mentally. Worst of all, she knew that right now her resistance to Root was completely gone and she just had to deal with it. As Root had said herself, Shaw wasn’t a coward. 

Shaw took a step toward her, tilting her chin up to look her in the eye. “I guess you could say that, Root,” she said in a husky voice. “Yeah, I’m still curious.” 

Root took a moment for herself to savor the incredible woman standing before her. Her hair loose over her bare shoulders and back, heightened color in her still-tired face, absolutely amazing breasts on display with an utter lack of self-consciousness, her full lips curved into a one-sided anticipatory smile. Her dark nipples were rock hard, her breathing a little more rapid than usual. And those eyes, those bottomless black eyes gazing up at hers, pulling Root into her. 

Root took one of Shaw’s hands and moved a few steps backward, bringing Shaw with her, until she reached the couch and propped herself on its back. She reached out with both hands to gather Shaw in, lowering her mouth and devouring Shaw’s in a long hard kiss, biting at her lower lip. She heard and felt Shaw’s groan of intense need, Shaw’s tongue meeting hers avidly as Root tightly gripped her hair, tilting her head back so she could take full possession of her mouth. 

Shaw molded herself to the buttery material covering Root’s thigh, and slipped her hands under Root’s equally luscious vest. She caressed the hot satiny skin she found beneath, then abruptly dug her nails into the muscle ridges by Root’s spine. Root gasped into her mouth at the sudden pain, both hands leaving Shaw’s hair to grab her ass, urging on the slide of Shaw’s hips over her thigh. 

Shaw groaned at the friction, feeling herself becoming wetter, her breath beginning to come in hard pants though their kiss. Pulling her mouth away, Root took one hand off her ass while the other continued to press Shaw against her. She gently brushed the hair away from Shaw’s ear, and, leaning close, she spoke in a slightly breathless but firm tone as Shaw surged against her, “Ready now, Sameen?” 

Shaw let out another short moan at the stupidly hot sound of Root’s voice in her ear, as much as at the meaning of what she’d said. Already near her peak, her body starting to quiver in earnest, she muttered, “Yeah, Root, do it.” 

“What do you say, sweetie?” 

Shaw could feel Root smile, knew exactly what she wanted. And, goddammit, _she_ wanted that, too. She closed her eyes and bowed her head to Root’s shoulder, the vest’s material cool against her hot forehead. “Please, Root,” she said. “Please.” She let out her breath and waited. 

Root placed one hand directly between Shaw’s sweating shoulder blades and the other slid down the back of her shorts. She spoke quietly, intensely: “Now.” 

The prickling tingle from the mesh on her hands began immediately and grew until it fizzed hard across Shaw’s nerves, enveloping her with intense sensation that coursed down her spine and up into her skull. Her entire body shook with an electric wave of pain/pleasure, and she ground down hard on Root’s thigh, the heat there blooming with the static burn that crawled over her skin. 

Root held her firmly, little hums and gasps of pleasure slipping out as Shaw moved against her. Shaw’s leg pushed in between Root’s, the sudden pressure causing Root to groan aloud. With a sharp intake of breath, she lowered her head and bit _hard_ into the flesh between Shaw’s neck and shoulder, hanging on with her teeth as Shaw jolted in response. 

The sudden sharp burst of fiery pain on top of everything else abruptly short-circuited Shaw’s brain in a hot, static flare of sensation overload. Root’s voice joined hers with an intense moan as Shaw shouted out her wordless release into the room as she came hard and long, her body shaking through a cascade of pleasure. 

Root could hear her own harsh breathing as Shaw continued to rock on her thigh through the aftershocks. She left smaller zaps all over Shaw’s back and breasts and ass, noises occasionally escaping from her as Shaw’s body trembled against hers through each peak. Gradually, she brought Shaw back down to earth, tapering the zaps off, her hands lingering longer in each spot, until she finally brought them to rest, one on Shaw’s shoulder and the other resting on her own thigh, fingertips touching Shaw’s bare leg. 

Shaw looked up at Root, eyes shining, and gave her a smile that almost broke her. 

Warm blood coursed through Shaw’s entire body from the afterglow and Root’s delighted—and not at all smug—smile in return was supremely gratifying. _Great work. Like the way you handle your gadgets, nerd._

She shifted back a little and stood upright, shaking her hair back behind her shoulders. Root reached into a pocket and, with an enormous grin, handed Shaw a hair tie. Shaw gave a small chuckle as she took it and put her hair up into its usual comfortable ponytail. 

“Your message earlier said that you wanted to go over a couple of matters with me,” said Root, still grinning. “Did we make it worth your while?” 

“Almost,” said Shaw. She stretched her arms and body upwards, tilting her head from side to side as she did so, before letting her arms fall and shaking them out briefly. She felt fucking fantastic, like she fully inhabited herself for the first time in days. 

Root raised an eyebrow at her, her smile drooping at the edges. “Almost?” 

“Yeah, Root, almost. I also wanted to make an appointment to shoot the kind of weapon that was used to kill Claire and the other victim. That hasn’t happened yet.” 

Both of Root’s eyebrows went up. “Really. This will be fully worth your while once you get to shoot one of my guns.” 

“Yeah. So how about we go do that right now?” 

Root frowned and made a kind of _hmph_ sound in response. Shaw’s smile got even broader. 

Lowering her eyes, Root fumbled her silver case out of one of her pockets and after nearly dropping it a couple of times, she took a joint out and inelegantly stuck it in her mouth. 

“Fine, Shaw,” she said in a clipped tone as she searched for her lighter. “When I said my business with you was the most important thing here this evening, I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so _transactional_. But if that’s what you want right now, I can hardly refuse.” 

_Not like her to be so clumsy …ah._ Shaw’s admittedly spaced-out brain suddenly caught on to the fact that the bright pink flush on Root’s cheeks and the slight shake of her black-painted fingertips as she finally lit the joint were actually signs of her being in a right royal _snit_. 

Shaw couldn’t help herself: she snorted out a chuckle. 

The flush appeared on Root’s neck and upper chest now, and her darkened eyes snapped to Shaw’s from where they’d been moodily gazing across the room, a hint of that feral aura evident in her stare. 

“I’m glad something’s amusing, lieutenant. At least I can be of some use beyond assisting with your investigation.” 

Shaw laughed out loud. She stepped up to Root and gave her a light not-quite slap on the cheek, leaving her hand there holding Root’s face. Root didn’t flinch, but merely gazed snootily down her annoyingly-cute nose at Shaw and said nothing. 

“Think about it, Root. I am voluntarily going with you to your Batcave. Now. In the middle of the night. If I only wanted to check out your guns, I’d just schedule that appointment.” She gave Root a playful grin. “The cop might want to see how you handle a gun. The chick might be curious about how you handle other things. This business agenda you thought I had in mind is a little incomplete.” 

Root’s eyebrows had risen steadily through Shaw’s mini speech, and her lips finally twitched into a smile. She grabbed Shaw’s hand from where it still rested on her face, brought it to her mouth, and _bit_ her palm on the fleshy part just beneath her thumb. 

“Ow!” Shaw snatched her hand back before Root decided to chomp down on something more useful. 

“That’s fine, Sam. Maybe that demo a few minutes ago of how I _handle things_ wasn’t quite enough for you.” Root gave her a wicked smile, showing her teeth. "Want me to prove something more? Make it really worth your while? Challenge accepted. " 

Shaw tilted her chin up and grinned back without bothering to reply. _We’ll just see who comes out on top of this little challenge._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary:
> 
> Shaw runs into Root at the kinky club she owns. She also runs into Lambert, who's working for Root there, and Collier, who she has a little non-sexual fun with. 
> 
> She tells Root that she thinks the motivation for killing Claire was to prevent blackmail and get the diaries Shaw found out about from Claire's family in the last chapter. Root, of course, is like, "Do you think I'd let someone blackmail me like that?" and Shaw agrees that she does not actually think that about Root.
> 
> After they have a little surprise sex, because Shaw's usual carefulness has been significantly eroded by the events of the last couple of days (and Root is too darn hot), Shaw asks Root if they can go back to Root's Batcave/mansion now so that Shaw can try out shooting the kind of gun that killed Claire. Messing around with guns is not the only objective. 
> 
> So there will be some shooting guns and more smut in the next chapter, and that time clothes will be off!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Oh, and just a note re Root smoking weed. It's basically because this Root is a Captain of Industry (after a shady past) and it's kind of a release valve for her more go-getting life now. Inspired by a very good friend of mine who is a CEO and is super ambitious, effective and respectable most of the time, but also lets her hair down with a bit of weed semi-regularly, and also had an interesting past...


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Root and Shaw go back to Root's ~~batcave~~ mansion. They shoot guns and do the kinds of things that Shoot do after shooting guns. In between those activities, though, Root gets Shaw thinking hard about the political forces in play around the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot development part all happens before the second scene break. 
> 
> From there until the end, it's all smut. Pretty unkinky smut, as it happens, but hopefully fun nonetheless.
> 
> Tightened up with taut tweaks from @[SloanGreyMercyDeath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SloanGreyMercyDeath), tg.

Fifteen minutes later, Root and Shaw were on their way to Root’s fortress in Shaw’s shitbox vehicle. Root was driving. Shaw was busy chowing down on the best burger she’d ever eaten and trying not to moan out loud.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” she growled, when she caught Root looking over with one of her stupid-ass expressions on her face.

“It’s really a shame this vehicle doesn’t have auto-drive, Shaw,” Root said, wrinkling her nose slightly.

“Yeah, yeah.” Shaw rolled her eyes. “They don’t exactly put the latest and greatest gizmos into the vehicles they supply to New York’s finest. Although maybe if they spent all the cash they save on auto-homing and auto-drive on goddamn heater repairs, we wouldn’t be sitting here freezing our asses off.” She shivered as soon as she mentioned the stupid heater, her body obviously deciding to echo the sentiment.

“We wouldn’t be freezing at all if we’d taken my nice warm transpo like I suggested,” said Root, pouting a little. “There would have been no problem with taking you back to Cop Central or anywhere else, anytime you wanted to go, honestly.”

“I need mine in case there’s a job. Like I already said, Root.” Shaw took a large bite of her burger and chewed, ending the discussion. She did not want Root to speculate on her need to have absolute control over _something_ this evening, though given the slight smirk on Root’s mouth as she smoothly navigated the late-night traffic, that ship had probably sailed.

Leaving the club and making the detour to collect Shaw’s vehicle hadn’t really been much of a hassle. Root had issued a crisp set of orders to Lambert while Shaw went to collect her backpack from the locker. She had got fully dressed, as much for the chill outside as for modesty’s sake. Meanwhile, Root had changed into a burgundy silk shirt and a sleek jacket of the same high-tech leather-like material as the pants she still wore. Root’s swanky transport had dropped them at the precinct within a few minutes—she had insisted on accompanying Shaw, despite her telling Root that she would catch up—and as they pulled up outside Cop Central, a bike messenger had simultaneously arrived with two juicy burgers.

The smell of the food and the abrupt realisation she was starving had been highly motivational for Shaw to get her vehicle freed from the bowels of the parking garage as quickly as possible. Root had finished her burger by the time Shaw re-emerged, but the fancy packaging had kept the remaining burger good and hot until they set off again. Shaw hadn’t even protested too much against Root’s insistence on driving while Shaw ate, so the food wouldn’t get cold. Maybe Root coming with her hadn’t been such a bad idea.

Shaw finished eating way too soon and wiped her fingers and lips with the fragrant paper towel that had been tucked into the burger wrapper. Thinking of Lambert and his prompt, devoted attention to Root’s instructions had made Shaw remember something else that she was curious about.

“So, Sarx,” she began.

“Yes, Shaw?” Root looked over at her, a hint of glee in her smile. “I understand you know our Jeremy quite well.” 

Shaw grunted. “For certain values of ‘knowing’, I guess.”

Root’s smile broadened in appreciation as she returned her eyes to the road. “So I heard. He’s mentioned his dealings with ‘Indigo’ a number of times since we’ve been working together. He feels quite bad about his less-than-courteous behaviour now.”

Shaw eyed Root in speculation. “Yeah, his attitude seems to have changed a lot from when we last ran into each other.”

Root hummed in agreement as she changed lanes to get around a slow-ass limo, the curve of her lips acquiring a certain smugness. “It was a lovely surprise to learn that Indigo is _you_ , so I’m glad you’ve noticed some changes. Although, naturally, Jeremy learning some manners has been beneficial to everyone he’s come into contact with.” She kept her attention on the road, seemingly focused on manoeuvring through the traffic.

If Root was going to play coy with the details, Shaw wasn’t going to waste much more time on the topic of Lambert. But there was that one thing. “He said to me that you’d given him the name ‘Sarx’. That it’s a biblical thing, meaning flesh and blood? Seems to be a big deal for him.”

“Yes, I did. The English term ‘flesh and blood’ comes from Matthew 16—distinguishing mortal humans from God. The reminder that we are all mortal seemed like a useful concept for Jeremy to acquire, along with a little humility.”

“You got that right,” muttered Shaw.

Root’s lips twitched. “Sarx has a few different meanings in the bible—the Greek word really just means ‘flesh’. Bodily flesh; the metaphor of flesh and blood.” She paused deliberately and glanced at Shaw. “And… penis.”

Shaw swivelled her head around and stared at Root. “ _Penis_?”

“Yes.” Root managed to keep a relatively straight face as she returned her eyes to the road, but the sideways quirk of her mouth gave her away. “‘Sarx’ refers to a penis once or twice in the Greek text.”

Shaw could not believe her ears. “So you’re telling me that you’ve been calling Jeremy a _dick_ all this time?”

“It’s not so much the main reason now, but yes, it seemed fitting when I first acquired the place and him as an employee—” Root grinned as she looked back at Shaw, eyes sparkling.

Shaw laughed out loud in delight, her slight lingering resentment against Lambert’s past bullshit instantly vanishing. It would have been fucking great to have been a fly on the wall when Root started _training_ her new employee, but _this_? This was almost as good.

“Now, Shaw,” Root shook her head in smiling admonishment. “Remember that respect goes both ways. I’m being less discreet than I should, but I figure you were directly affected by his previous conduct.”

“Uh huh,” Shaw nodded, a grin still on her face. She really did get it—Lambert seemed to have learned a lesson or two. But she wasn’t ever going to forget it.

* * *

They arrived at Root’s residence a few minutes later, pulling up beside the front steps. Shaw rubbed her hands together briskly as they exited the vehicle—she was chilled to the bone. Despite the chill, though, she was energised with anticipation at seeing Root’s guns in action.

The same massive slab-faced butler opened the door and greeted Shaw with the same stony demeanor as previously. His eyebrow seemed to lift just the tiniest amount as he greeted Root, who merely looked straight back at him as he took her jacket from her.

“Send coffee down to the target room, please, Hersh,” Root requested without any further comment as she led Shaw into the warmth of the house and up the stairs.

When they reached the third floor, Root went through her collection briskly, choosing weapons without fuss or hesitation. She handled the antiques with the competence of experience and apparent habitual use. Not someone who just bought things to collect, but someone who used their possessions. Shaw wondered if Root knew that counted against her. Or if she even cared.

Once Root’s choices were secured in a small case, she moved to a wall. Both the security screen and the door itself were so cleverly hidden in a full-length live holo of a forest. Shaw would never have found it. The holo parted to reveal an elevator, its door open.

“This car only opens to a select number of rooms,” Root explained as Shaw stepped into the elevator with her. “I rarely take guests down to the target area.”

“Why?”

“My collection, and the use of it, are reserved for those who can appreciate it.”

“How much do you buy through the black market?”

“Always a cop.” Root flashed that roguish grin at her. “I buy only through legal sources, naturally.” Her eyes skimmed down to Shaw’s front pocket. “As long as you’re recording.”

Shaw couldn’t help but smile back. Of course she was recording now and of course Root knew it. It was a measure of Shaw’s interest that she took out her link and manually disengaged it.

“What about yours?” Shaw glanced around the elevator as the doors opened. “You’d have full security feeds in every corner of this place.”

“Naturally.” Root courteously gestured for her to exit the car first.

The room was high-ceilinged, surprisingly spartan given Root’s love of comfort. The lights came on the moment they stepped in, illuminating plain, sand colored walls. Inside the room were a couple of couches, a few computer chairs, and a table where a tray holding a sleek silver coffeepot and china mugs had already been set.

Ignoring them, Shaw walked over to a long console set against the wall. “What does this do?”

“A number of things.” Root set the case she carried down on a flat area on the console. She touched a dim light on its surface and the console immediately lit up with controls and readouts.

“I keep a supply of ammunition here.” She touched a couple of the controls. A cabinet in the base of the console slid open, stacked with various kinds of ammo. “And we need these.” From a second cabinet, she took earplugs and wraparound eye protectors.

“Interesting hobbies you have, Root,” Shaw said as she adjusted the eye protectors. They conformed snugly to her forehead and cheekbones and the clear lenses lit up with a detailed display.

“Isn’t it nice that our interests overlap so much, Shaw?” Root asked coyly. Shaw scoffed a little in response. Root continued, smiling, “These are VR eye protectors—you should be able to see the HUD now.”

Shaw nodded and fitted the earplugs, which expanded to fit to her ears. Root picked up the .38 and loaded it. Her voice came with a faint echo through Shaw’s earplugs, linking them, closing out other sounds in the room.

“This was standard police issue in the mid-twentieth century. Toward the second millennium, 9mm firearms were preferred. In the former NYPD, they were Glock 19s.”

“The RS-50s were the official weapon of choice during the Urban Revolt and into the third decade of the twenty-first century,” Shaw said.

Root lifted a brow, pleased. “You’ve been doing your homework.”

“You got that right.” Shaw glanced at the weapon in her hand. “Into the mind of a killer.”

“Then you’d be aware that the electromag neural disruptor-type hand weapon you have strapped under your hoodie didn’t gain popular acceptance until about twenty-five years ago.”

Shaw watched with a slight frown as Root slapped the cylinder shut. “The NS EM, with modifications, has been standard police issue since 2053. I didn’t notice any EM weapons in your collection.”

Root’s eyes met hers, and there was a laugh in them. “Cop toys only. They’re illegal, lieutenant, even for collectors.” She touched another control.

In Shaw’s eye protectors, the HUD readout was abruptly replaced with the image of a man, so lifelike that Shaw blinked and braced before she caught herself. She could still see the rest of the room and Root perfectly; the figure looked exactly as if it was standing a dozen or so meters away from them.

“Excellent simulation,” she murmured, studying the big, bull-shouldered man holding a weapon she couldn’t quite identify.

“He’s a replica of a typical twentieth-century gang hitman. That’s an AK-47 he’s carrying.”

“Right.” She narrowed her eyes as she examined it. It was more dramatic than in the photos and videos she’d studied. “Very popular with urban gangs and chemi dealers of the era.”

“An assault weapon,” said Root. “Designed purely to kill. Once I activate, if he hits you on target, you'll feel a slight jolt. Low level electrical shock, rather than the much more dramatic insult of a bullet. Want to try it?” She smirked a little.

Shaw had to laugh. “Yeah, I think we’ve already figured out a little zap is fine. But you go first.”

Root scrunched both eyes at her in an expression that Shaw eventually realised was supposed to be a wink. She somehow managed to keep a straight face despite extreme provocation. _No doubt now—one hundred percent dork._

“Fine by me,” said Root cheerfully, as if everyone ‘winked’ like that. She spoke to the room: “Simulation, start.”

The virtual thug lunged forward, swinging up his weapon. The sound effects kicked in instantly. The thunder of noise had Shaw twitching, her reflexes triggered. Snarled obscenities, street sounds, the terrifyingly rapid explosion of gunfire came from the simulation soundtrack.

She watched as Root, barely seeming to look, smoothly brought up the gun and fired twice. The figure’s wide chest seemed to erupt with blood as the man flew back backward. The weapon spiraled out of his hand. Then both vanished.

“Jesus.”

Root lowered her weapon and had to admit to herself that she’d been showing off like a kid at an arcade. Sameen seemed to challenge her merely by watching her. “It hardly makes the point of what something like this can do to flesh and bone if the simulation isn’t realistic.”

“Guess not.” Shaw had to blink. “Did it hit you?”

“Not that time. Of course, one on one, when your opponent is in full view and you can anticipate them, it’s not that difficult to win your round.”

Root spoke to the room again: “Simulation, reinitialize.” The dead gunman was back, whole and ready to rock. Root picked up a SIG Sauer P210—same as the weapon used to kill Lola Starr—with no apparent intention of putting down the .38. Shaw stared at her in surprise, but Root paid her no attention. She took her stance with both guns with the ease and efficiency, Shaw thought, of a veteran cop. Or, to borrow her own word, a hitman.

Abruptly, the image lunged, and as Root fired, five others appeared in rapid succession. A man with some sort of wicked looking handgun, two more goons with AK-47s, a snarling woman aiming a long-barreled weapon—a .44 Magnum, Shaw thought—right at them, a small, terrified child carrying a ball.

The sound in her ears boomed with shots and yells as the goons fired their various weapons. Root pivoted smoothly, like a dancer, firing double-taps with one weapon or the other at each target, hitting center mass each time. When it was over, the child was sitting on the ground weeping, all alone.

“A random choice like that is more difficult,” Root told her, smiling a little. “Caught my shoulder.”

“What?” Shaw blinked, focussing on her face again. “Your shoulder.”

Root grinned at her. “Don’t worry, darlin’. It’s just a flesh wound.”

Shaw’s heartbeat was thudding in her ears, no matter how much she told herself that the effect Root’s lethal elegance had on her was _stupid_. “Hell of a set of toys you have, Root. Real party time. Do you play often?”

“Now and again. The dual-wield was a little ostentatious, perhaps. It’s not for beginners.”

Shaw shook her head. “Yeah, dual-wielding is ridiculous when anyone tries it with the standard cop weapons. Even though they’re lighter, more accurate. Gotta say though, that was hot.”

Root gave her a coy smile as she ejected the SIG's clip and put the gun to one side. She picked up the .38 again. “Ready to try it?”

If she could handle a simulation session in Testing, Shaw decided, she could handle this. “Yeah, run another random pattern.”

“That’s what I admire about you, lieutenant.” Root selected some .38 cal ammo and loaded it in. “You jump right in. Let’s try a dry run first.”

Root brought up a simple bull’s-eye target. She stepped behind Shaw, placed the .38 in her hands, and rested her hands over Shaw’s. Root’s cheek pressed against hers. “You have to sight it, as it doesn’t sense heat and movement like your weapon does.” She adjusted Shaw’s arms until she was satisfied. “When you’re ready to fire, you want to squeeze the trigger, not pump it. It’s going to jerk a bit. It’s not as smooth or as silent as your EM.”

“I’ve got it,” Shaw muttered. Even after the events earlier in the evening, it was stupid to be this susceptible to the touch of Root’s hands, the press of her body, the smell of her perfume. “You’re crowding me.”

Root turned her head, just enough to have her lips brushing up to Shaw’s ear. “I know. You need to brace yourself more than you’re used to. A flinch is a common reflex. But don’t.”

“I don’t flinch.” To prove it, she squeezed the trigger. Her arms jerked from the kickback, annoying her. She shot again, steadier this time. Root stepped away and watched closely. Shaw shot the gun for a third time, missing the heart of the target by just a couple of centimeters. “You feel it, don’t you?” She rolled her shoulders, fascinated by the way they sang in response to the weapon in her hands.

“It makes it more personal. You’ve got a good eye.” Root was impressed, but her tone was mild. “Of course, it’s one thing to shoot at a circle, another to shoot at a body. Even a reproduction.”

 _Huh, here’s a challenge._ Shaw was up for it. “How many more shots in this?”

“We’ll reload it full.” Root touched the console for another simulation. Curiosity and, she had to admit, ego, had her choosing a tough one. “Ready?”

Shaw flicked a glance at her and adjusted her stance. “Yeah.”

The first image was an elderly woman clutching a shopping bag with both hands. Shaw nearly took the bystander’s head off before her trigger finger froze. A movement flickered to the left, and she shot a mugger before they could bring an iron pipe down on the old woman. A slight sting in her left hip had her shifting again and taking out a bald man with a weapon similar to her own.

They came fast and hard after that.

Root watched her, mesmerized and turned on. Shaw didn’t flinch. Her eyes stayed focused and cool, a tiny smile on her face. She knew Shaw’s adrenaline was up, her pulse hammering. Her movements were quick but as fluid and studied as a kata. Her jaw was set, her hands steady. Root wanted her again, desperately. This strong, able woman, who had given herself over less than an hour before. She wanted that focus back on her again, soon.

“Caught me twice,” Shaw said almost to herself. She opened the chamber herself, reloaded as she’d seen Root do. “Once in the hip, once in the abdomen. That makes me dead or in dire straits. Run another.”

Root obliged, then hooked her thumbs in her pockets, leaned back on the console, and watched her work.

When Shaw was done, she asked to try the SIG Sauer. She found she preferred the weight and the response of it. It had other advantages over a revolver: quicker, more responsive, better fire power, and a reload took mere seconds.

Neither weapon fit as comfortably in her hand as her EM, yet she found both primitively and horribly efficient. And the damage they caused, the torn flesh, the flying blood, turned death into a gruesome affair.

“Any hits?” Root asked.

Shaw stared down the room, the afterimages playing in her mind. “No. I’m clean. What they do to a body,” she said softly, and put the weapon down. “To have used these—to have faced having to use them day after day, and know going in they could be used against you. Who could face that,” she wondered, “without going a little insane?”

“You could.” Root removed her eye and ear protectors. “Conscience and dedication to duty are the opposite of weakness. You got through Testing. It cost you, but you got through it.”

Shaw carefully set her protectors beside Root’s. “How do you know?”

“How do I know you were in Testing today? I have my ways of getting information. How do I know it cost you?” She gripped Shaw's arm gently. “You came to my club, desperate for something to purge it out of your system. I could see that it wasn’t just ‘relaxation’ you wanted, it was expiation. I can see now,” Root went on softly, “that you _care_. I don’t think you realize that’s what makes you so good at your job. Or so fascinating to me.”

“I’m not trying to fascinate you. I’m trying to find someone who used those weapons I just fired. To kill. Not for defense, but for enjoyment.” She looked straight into Root’s eyes. “It isn’t you.”

“No, it isn’t me.”

“But you know something.”

Root brushed her thumb over Shaw’s chin before dropping her hand. “I’m not at all sure that I do.” She crossed over to the table and began pouring out the coffee. “Twentieth-century weapons, twentieth-century crimes. Implying twentieth-century motives?” She flicked a glance at Shaw. “That would be my take.”

“Old-fashioned attitudes? It's an old-fashioned M-O, sure. An old-fashioned motive? Maybe.”

“Tell me, lieutenant, can you adjust your reasoning to those old-fashioned attitudes, or are you too firmly entrenched in the now?” 

She’d wondered the same herself. “I’m adaptable.”

“No doubt, but just as importantly, you’re smart. Whoever killed Claire had a knowledge of, and maybe an affection or even an obsession with the past.” Root brows lifted ironically. “I myself have a good knowledge of, and perhaps even an affection for, certain aspects of the past. Am I personally obsessed with it?” She lifted a careless shoulder. “You’ll have to judge for yourself.”

“I’m working on it.”

“I’m sure you are. Let’s try some basic deduction, no computers, no technical analysis. Let's look at the victim first. You believe Claire was a blackmailer, and it fits. She was an angry woman, defiant, power hungry, but she also wanted to be loved.”

“You figured all that out after seeing her twice?”

“From that,” Root said as she offered the coffee to Shaw, “and from talking to people who knew her. Friends and associates found her a stunning, energetic, yet secretive woman. A woman who dismissed her family, yet thought of them often. Someone who loved life, but brooded alone, often. I imagine we’ve covered much of the same ground.”

Irritation flared up. “I wasn’t aware you were covering any ground, Root, in a police investigation.”

“Connie and Graham are my friends. I take my friendships seriously. They’re grieving, Shaw, and I don’t like knowing Connie is blaming herself. I also don’t think you know the full extent of what you’re getting yourself into.”

Shaw remembered Connie’s haunted eyes and nerves. She sighed. “All right, I can accept that. Who have you talked to?”

“Friends, as I said, acquaintances, business associates.” Root set her coffee aside as Shaw sipped hers and paced. “Odd, isn’t it, how many different opinions and perceptions you find about one woman. Ask this one and you’ll hear Claire was loyal, generous. Ask another and she was vindictive, calculating. Another one thought of her as a party addict who could never find enough excitement, while the next tells you she enjoyed quiet evenings on her own. She was quite a role player. A skillful one.”

“She wore different faces for different people. It’s common enough.”

Root smiled with a hint of smugness. “So, which face, or which role, killed her?” She took out a joint and lit it. “Blackmail.” She blew out a fragrant stream of smoke thoughtfully. “She would have been good at it. She liked to dig into people and could dispense considerable charm while doing so.”

“And she dispensed it on you.” Shaw poured herself more coffee.

“Abundantly.” Root smiled gently. “I wasn’t prepared to exchange information for sex. Even if she hadn’t been my friend’s daughter and a professional, she wouldn’t have appealed to me in that way. I have a different type.” Her eyes rested on Shaw’s again, a definite hint of irony in them. “Or I thought I did. I haven’t yet figured out why the intense, driven, and cantankerous type appeals to me so unexpectedly.”

Shaw took a sip from her mug and looked at Root over the rim. “That isn’t flattering.” Root gave her a sweet smile. Shaw huffed and continued. “To follow this line of deduction, if Claire Hallen was murdered by one of her blackmail victims, where does Lola Starr come in?”

“It’s a problem, isn’t it?” Root took a contemplative drag. “They don’t appear to have anything in common other than their choice of profession. It’s doubtful they knew each other or shared the same taste in clients. Yet there was one who, at least briefly, knew them both.”

“One who chose them both.”

Root lifted her brows slightly and nodded. “That’s a better way of putting it.”

“What did you mean when you said I didn’t know what I was getting into?” Shaw shot out.

Root’s hesitation was so brief, so smoothly covered, that it was barely noticeable. “I’m not sure if you understand the power Hallen has or can use. This scandal—his granddaughter’s murder—could add to it. He wants the presidency, and he wants to dictate the mood and moral choices of the country and beyond.”

“You’re saying he could use Claire’s death politically? How?” Shaw was disgusted by the idea.

Root crushed out her joint. “He could paint his granddaughter as a victim of society, and that sex for profit was the murder weapon. How can a world that’s decriminalized sex work, that allows full conception control, gender alignment, and so in, not take responsibility for the results?”

Shaw could appreciate the debate, but shook her head. “Hallen also wants to eliminate the gun ban. Claire was shot by a weapon not readily available under current law.”

“Which makes it more insidious. Would Claire have been able to defend herself if she, too, had been armed?” When Shaw started to disagree, Root shook her head. “It doesn’t matter what the real answer is, all you need to do is introduce the sense of doubt. Have we forgotten our founders and the basic tenets of their blueprint for the country? Our right to bear arms. A woman murdered in her own home, her own bed, completely defenseless. A victim of sexual freedom and this country's moral decline in general.”

She strolled over to the coffee tray. “Obviously, it will be argued that murder by handgun was the rule rather than the exception when almost anyone with the means could get one, but the senator will drown that out. The Conservative Party is gaining ground, and he’s the spearhead.”

Root watched Shaw process that while she poured more coffee. “Has it also occurred to you that he might not want the murderer caught?”

Off guard, Shaw looked up. “Why wouldn’t he? Over and above the personal, wouldn’t that give him even more ammunition? ‘Here’s the low-life, immoral scum that murdered my poor, misguided granddaughter.’”

“That’s a risk, isn’t it? Perhaps the murderer is a fine, upstanding pillar of their community who was equally misguided. But, yes, a scapegoat is certainly required.”

She looked at Shaw meaningfully and waited a moment, watching Shaw think it through. “Who do you think made certain you went to Testing in the middle of this case? Who’s watching every step you take, monitoring every stage of your investigation? Who’s digging into your background, your personal life as well as your professional one? Who is looking for any kind of crack that they can focus attention on, to make sure they get their scapegoat?”

Annoyed, Shaw set her mug down. “I suspected that Hallen put the pressure on about Testing. He doesn’t trust me, or he hasn’t decided I’m competent to head the investigation. He had Finch and me followed from East Washington.” She let out a long breath and her face hardened. “So how do you know he’s digging on me? Because _you_ are?”

Root didn’t resent Shaw's ire or her accusation. It was better than the self-doubt someone else might have shown. But it still stung. “No, because I’m watching him while he’s watching you. I decided it was much more preferable to learn about you from the source, from what _you_ reveal, than by reading reports or surveillance.”

The anger had gone from Shaw's eyes; she looked back at Root, warily.

Root stepped closer and stroked one of the fine locks of hair falling around Shaw’s face with her fingers. “Strange as it may seem, I respect the privacy of the people I care about—and I care about you, Shaw. I don’t know why or how, but you pull something from me.”

When Shaw shook her head and started to step back, Root gripped her arm again, her voice intense. “I know your way of caring is not typical—but don’t insult me. I don’t want the typical white picket fence happily-ever-after either. I don’t care what this thing is or how we work it between us, but there’s more here, more than a quick, hot fuck. I want—need—to know what that _more_ might be. But Sameen, every time I feel like you’re letting go a little, that we might figure something out, you put suspicion, this murder, between us.”

“There is murder between us, Root.” Shaw wanted to find solid ground in this conversation.

“No. Perversely, if anything, it’s what brought us together. Is that the problem? Your work?” Root’s tone suddenly became defiant and she pinned Shaw with her glare. “Do you think I _wanted_ this, Shaw? Do you think I wanted to be involved with someone in a profession that I’ve despised for years? A profession that has traditionally been sworn to serve and protect, but over and over again, has failed to do either?”

Shaw almost fired up in response, but something about the bitter sadness in Root’s eyes stopped her.

Root continued in a softer tone: “You’ve shown me that at least one cop does otherwise. I couldn’t help but see during this investigation that _you_ take your oath with the integrity that it deserves. That, despite the personal cost, _you_ serve and protect. Your integrity, your focus, your dedication to your work, has made me open up to something I never expected, never thought of. It’s not the murder. It’s the _cop_ getting between us now, Sameen. Can you drop Lieutenant Shaw enough to allow this thing, this unwanted, strange, unexpected _thing_ , to play itself out between us?”

Root’s eyes held hers, not pleading, not challenging, not demanding. Their focused intensity pulled at Shaw, reaching something deep inside. That something, that recognition of something _alike_ between her and Root, surged up in her with a matching intensity, inevitable, leaving abstract thought behind.

* * *

Shaw’s arms abruptly went around Root, fingers diving into her hair. She slammed their bodies and mouths together, vibrating as their kiss grew rough, almost brutal. She pushed them both toward the rear of the room, Root almost stumbling as Shaw shoved at her, until the base of Root’s spine came up hard against the console, a small yelp escaping her from the impact.

Shaw’s mouth was hot, almost vicious as it devoured Root’s again. The shock of it sent flares of reaction straight to Root’s center.

Already, Shaw’s fast, impatient hands were tugging Root’s shirt from her pants, finding her skin. Root’s hands, just as fast, unzipped Shaw's hoodie, pulled it off her shoulders, and threw it somewhere to one side. Shaw’s face was flushed, her mouth already swollen, as she pressed back between Root’s legs and started wrestling with her belt buckle. Root had torn Shaw’s white shirt at the shoulder and the top of her weapon harness rested on bare skin, the torn sleeve partly exposing the flex of her tricep while she worked at Root’s belt.

Shaw finally got the belt undone and yanked it entirely out of the loops by the buckle, letting go of it as she whipped it free. The belt clunked hard against the wall and fell to the floor. The sudden noise over their uneven breathing made Root jump a little, just as Shaw popped her pants fastener, dragged down the zipper, and thrust her hand inside.

Root cried out as Shaw’s fingers slid into her wetness, her knees almost buckling at the flare of sensation. Her hands flailed against the console surface and one of the cabinet doors suddenly popped open beside them with a loud thunk.

“Shit!”

Shaw did not stop sliding her fingers around, over Root, not ever quite where she wanted them, but she grinned hugely and curved her other hand around Root’s lower back, chivalrously bracing her so that Root could stretch backward and touch her hand to the console’s on/off control.

The cabinet door closed itself again with another solid thunk, as if in reproach, and the console lights faded out, except for the faint glow of the single light under Root’s hand.

She started to sit up again, but Shaw, not ceasing the slow, teasing motion of her fingers between Root’s legs, placed her other hand on the center of Root’s chest, forcing her to sprawl back over the console. “Stay there,” she said in a low almost-whisper.

Root, her hips starting to chase Shaw’s fingers with their own movement, let out a sound that was almost a whimper and stayed put, looking back up at Shaw with heavy-lidded eyes, her hands clutching the edge of the console.

Shaw’s entire hand was now at work, the heel of her hand pressing firmly just above Root’s pelvic bone, her palm sliding down over Root’s clit—never _on_ it—and her fingers slipping over, between Root’s slick folds with almost no pressure, circling her entrance but not dipping into it. Firm, measured, tantalising.

Shaw’s deliberate pace was driving Root almost insane, the high-pitched whimpers coming more frequently despite herself.

“Been building this up for a while, Root?” Shaw said in a husky tone, bracing herself on the console and leaning down to speak almost into her ear. “You could take care of that drought over in California, all by yourself.” 

Root somehow managed to gasp and let out a brief snort in quick succession. “Since that day I saw you in that ridiculous chapel, Sameen,” she murmured, somewhat breathlessly. “Seems a little ironic, but—” 

“Shut up, Root,” said Shaw with a mild eye roll and a twitch of her lips. She was too busy to listen to one of Root’s extended monologues right now. 

She pulled her hand out of Root’s pants, pushed Root back down onto the console again as she surged upright, and grabbed her pants by the waistband, tugging them downwards. Root got the right idea and raised her hips, allowing Shaw to pull them all the way down. The material looked and felt just like leather, but it had a lot more give. Great stuff. Shaw left them where they were, bunched around Root’s ankles, just to remind her who was in charge right now.

Stepping over Root’s immobilised ankles, Shaw pushed herself between her legs again. Root propped herself up on her elbows and let her knees fall open a little more to give Shaw room. Shaw gripped the back of Root’s head and leaned down, kissing her hard as Root rocked against her and moaned around Shaw’s tongue in her mouth. Shaw pulled away gently, and without any further delay, sank to her knees in front of Root, ready to put her own mouth where she’d wanted it for hours. _Days_ , if she was going to be honest with herself.

Shaw’s mouth watered—Root smelled fucking amazing. She was literally dripping, the wetness still glistening on her inner thighs from Shaw’s earlier attentions. Shaw breathed in deeply and rubbed her nose in the closely-trimmed dark hair directly above Root’s clit, holding Root’s thighs down as she gasped and writhed in response.

Root groaned a desperate “Shaw…!” that sounded as if it came from behind clenched teeth. Shaw laughed a little in pure anticipation, lowered her head, and immediately licked all the way up through Root’s drenched folds, sucking Root’s clit into her mouth.

Root let out a mini scream and flailed, one hand coming to rest behind Shaw’s head. Shaw raised her eyes while deliberately stroking Root with her tongue and saw Root looking back down at her, riveted at the sight, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed, lips parted, hair everywhere, all wit and control entirely gone.

_Fuck that’s hot._

Gazing back up at her, Shaw firmed her tongue and flattened it out, and Root, clutching Shaw’s head, rode her mouth, ragged gasps torn from her as if she were running a marathon. Shaw’s eyelashes fluttered as she breathed in Root’s arousal, her mouth and chin covered with Root’s wetness.

The breath came hard through Shaw's nostrils as she built up the momentum, her own arousal almost unbearable due to the fucking amazing sounds that Root was making. Shaw dug her fingernails hard into the outside of Root's thighs and she exclaimed a high-pitched _ah!_ as she threw her head back, her eyes closing as her body shook. The hand she had behind Shaw’s head fell back to the edge of the console and she hung onto it with a white-knuckled grip.

Shaw didn’t need any more encouragement. She elbowed Root’s thighs a little further apart and got one of her hands between Root’s legs. Raising her body a little, she shoved at Root’s torso with her other hand to get her to lie back down. Angling up so that her tongue was able to maintain its rhythm, Shaw thrust her two middle fingers into Root’s hot wetness and crooked them up against her front wall.

It took about six strokes, semi-muffled sounds escaping Shaw at the sensation of Root clamping down on her fingers, before Root shuddered and came like a freight train, her high-pitched yell echoing off the soundproofed walls. She cried out again as Shaw, slowing only briefly, added another finger and sucked Root’s clit back into her mouth, pushing her through another orgasm hard on the heels on the first. Shaw fucked her thoroughly for a few more minutes as Root whimpered and cursed and thrashed a little, until she eventually pulled Shaw up from between her legs by her ponytail.

Root levered herself up from the console and kissed Shaw hard, moaning again at the taste of herself in Shaw’s mouth. Shaw groaned too, her blood like molten fire as Root’s tongue met hers. She pushed up between Root’s thighs, grinding down on her, chasing the hot pleasure low down in her belly.

Root bucked up under her and shoved at Shaw, pushing her back. Confused, Shaw opened her eyes to see Root smiling coyly at her as she sat up fully, her hands resting on Shaw’s hips and her legs still wrapped around Shaw’s thighs.

“You know, Sameen, this is a pretty large house,” she said, somehow managing a casual tone despite her flushed cheeks and the loose hair obscuring half her face.

Shaw nodded, her breathing still a little fast. “Yeah, I know.”

“I have a bedroom in it. Several bedrooms. I think it’d be good to use one of the beds that are in one of those bedrooms for one of its intended purposes.”

Shaw snorted. Yeah, maybe she was a little slow on the uptake right now. There had been some pretty serious distractions. “Sure, let’s do that, Root.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, it turns out I've managed to get the best part of an additional chapter in here somehow. I overran this one, and now the next "chapter" is over 10K words. So that's going to need some rearranging. The first part of the next chapter has even more sexytimes, and then plotty-plot will ensue.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Root and Shaw continue their sex marathon until life intrudes. Root is off travelling to expand her space empire and Shaw continues her investigation down at Cop Central

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The banging continues as far as the second scene break. Nothing too gratutious re the sex, other than Root being somewhat bossy (what a surprise) and a tiny bit of light spanking. In the shower.
> 
> They have a little discussion re boundaries after the sex part, before they go their separate ways. The rest is procedural detective stuff.
> 
> More quality edits and suggestions from @[SloanGreyMercyDeath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SloanGreyMercyDeath) to keep me from wandering into the weeds.

Shaw stepped back carefully over Root’s confined ankles, not wanting to embarrassingly face-plant right after their hot sex. Root bounced up— _nerd’s got stamina_ —and bent over to start pulling on her pants. Shaw’s mouth went dry as she watched, her eyes fixed on the long pale legs she’d not had the chance to look at properly before. Root raised her head, her hair swinging around her face, and caught Shaw looking. Her flirtatious smirk instantly appeared as she dragged her pants all the way up her thighs, taking her time. 

“Like what you see, sweetie?” Root drawled as she pulled the zipper up a couple of centimeters, just enough to keep her pants from falling down. 

Shaw didn’t bother answering. Root might be a dumbass sometimes, but she wasn’t dumb. Root tucked her hair behind her ears and grabbed Shaw’s hand, smirking again at its dampness, and dragged her over to the elevator. Not that Shaw needed much dragging. Although she briefly slowed Root enough so she could grab her backpack from the floor as they passed the coffee table. When they reached the elevator, Root touched the control and bent down to kiss Shaw, their breathing becoming ragged as the kiss deepened. 

By the time the elevator door finally fucking opened, Root had ripped aside the torn sleeve from Shaw’s shirt and had popped a couple of her buttons. She shoved Shaw against the elevator’s back wall as the door closed and fumbled with her holster. “Can you get this damn thing off?” 

Shaw hit the release and let the holster dangle from the same hand that held her backpack, while she fought to open Root’s shirt buttons with the other. “Why are you wearing so much clothing right now?” she growled. 

“I won’t next time.” Root ripped Shaw’s tattered shirt aside. Shaw hadn’t bothered with a bra when she dressed again at the club. She wore a thin, nearly transparent white undershirt that revealed her full, firm breasts and hardened nipples. It was almost hotter than seeing them naked. Almost. Root closed her hands over them and watched Shaw’s eyes glaze over. “Where do you want to be touched?” 

“You’re doing fine.” Shaw had to brace a hand on the side wall to keep her knees from buckling as Root took her nipples firmly between fingers and thumb and twisted, smiling down at her with what could only be described as an _evil grin_. 

When the doors opened again, they were fused together. They circled out with Shaw’s teeth nipping and scraping along Root’s throat, Root’s hands still on her breasts. Shaw let her backpack and her holster drop to the floor as she separated herself from Root so they could get some goddamn clothes off. She got a glimpse of the room: wide windows, rich colors, pools and sparkles of light. She could smell flowers and felt the give of carpet under her feet. As she struggled to release her jeans, she caught sight of the bed. 

“Holy shit.” 

It was huge, a lake of midnight blue on a massive platform beneath a large sky window. Across from it was a fireplace of pale green stone where fragrant wood burned. 

“You sleep here?” 

“I don’t intend to sleep much tonight.” 

Shaw rolled her eyes—obviously orgasms didn’t much affect Root’s cheesiness level. Without pausing, Root dragged her over to the platform and fell onto the bed, pulling Shaw down with her. 

“I have to check in by 0700.” 

“That’s fine, lieutenant. Can we focus on the matter at hand?” 

“Okay.” With a half laugh, Shaw rolled on top and fastened her mouth to Root’s. Wild, reckless energy was bursting inside her. She couldn’t move quickly enough, her hands weren’t fast enough to satisfy the craving. 

She fought off her boots, let Root peel the jeans over her hips. Another wave of pleasure swept through her when she heard Root’s groan at the touch of her bare skin. It had been a long time since she’d felt the tension and heat of a naked body under hers—a long time since she’d wanted to. 

She managed to get all the buttons of Root’s shirt undone and flung it off, followed quickly by the hot-looking bra underneath—Shaw hadn’t forgotten how to undo them one-handed. She got on her knees and pulled Root’s pants and boots off, properly this time, throwing them to one side. 

By now, the need for release was driving and fierce. The moment they were both naked, Root flipped their positions and muffled her edgy protests with a long, rough kiss. 

“In a hurry now?” Root murmured, sliding a hand down to take her breast and watching Shaw’s face while her thumb quietly tortured her nipple some more. “I haven’t even looked at you.” 

“I want you to fuck me, Root.” 

“I know.” Root leaned back on an elbow, running her hand from Shaw’s shoulder to her thigh while her gaze followed its movement. The blood was pounding in Shaw’s ears and she quivered all over. “I want to touch this wonderful skin a little. With these marks of an interesting life—a few scars, this tattoo. I’ll need to look at it in the light. Your strength, balance, how everything is perfectly formed. You have a beautiful shape, Sameen.” 

She smiled down at Shaw, the colour high in her cheeks, her eyes shining with what Shaw could only interpret as _affection_. What she chose not to think about at that moment was how much the idea didn't bug her. 

Still, she couldn't help but smile back. “And you’re a pain in the ass, Root, but fuck it, you do something to me as well.” 

Root's smile shifted to something with more than a hint of mischief as she pinched her long fingers around Shaw’s other nipple and began to squeeze, hard. 

“Goddammit—” Shaw began, then groaned when Root dipped her head and took Shaw’s breast into her mouth, her hair drifting across Shaw’s chest. 

Shaw writhed against her as Root sucked, so gently at first it was torture on her already-tender nipples, then harder, faster until she had to bite back a yell. Root’s hands continued to skim over her, sparking more little fires of need. 

Root moved her body over Shaw’s, sliding one of those luscious thighs between her legs. Shaw couldn’t help herself; she pressed down against it, feeling her wetness slick against Root’s skin, her mouth falling open as she exhaled hard. Root gasped and ground down on Shaw as well and they moved together like a couple of dry-humping teenagers for a few minutes. It was ridiculous and hot and Shaw was going to fucking die if Root didn’t fuck her soon. 

Root apparently felt the same way. She dragged herself up from where Shaw’s hips were cradling hers and leaned down for another hot kiss. Simultaneously, her hand slid down between Shaw’s legs and she entered her with three fingers. 

Shaw made a guttural sound— _thank fucking god_ —as Root began to move her fingers inside, Shaw’s wetness allowing her to immediately thrust hard and fast, exactly like Shaw needed. Root shifted back onto her knees to get some more leverage and slid two fingers into Shaw’s mouth as she changed up her angle inside Shaw. Shaw moaned loudly as she sucked on Root’s fingers, the hot tension inside building higher. 

Root took her fingers from Shaw’s mouth and moved her hand behind Shaw’s neck, wrapping it in her ponytail to hold her down. She slightly withdrew her slick fingers from inside Shaw, added another, and then, slowly, exquisitely, slid them all back home. 

Shaw made a kind of deep growling sound from behind her teeth as she writhed and adjusted to the additional fullness. She began to push back against the pressure of Root's fingers, demanding more. Unhurried, completely assured, Root settled more of her bodyweight on Shaw to hold her down firmly, and fucked her hard in rhythm with the movement of her hips. 

After what felt like years, but was really only a couple of minutes more, Shaw felt her entire body infuse with an enormous wave of intense pleasure. She cried out, clutching at Root's shoulders, Root's hums in response tipping Shaw over again and again as she kept the momentum going through all of Shaw’s aftershocks. Shaw exhaled deeply as her hands finally slid from Root’s lightly-sweating shoulders and Root rolled to one side, breathing hard. 

They didn’t speak for a long time as their breathing gradually returned to normal. Root was propped on one elbow, looking down at the movement of her hand as she slowly stroked Shaw’s abs and thighs. The stroking felt fine in the afterglow, but Shaw’s brain, unfortunately, came online as her pulse quietened. 

There was no getting around the fact that she had taken an inappropriate step during an active case with her eyes wide open. If there were consequences, Shaw would have to pay them. There was nothing to do right now except gather herself together and get out of there. She needed to think about how to deal with the shitstorm that was going to rain down as soon as the higher-ups got the news. 

“I have to go.” Shaw sat up abruptly and wondered how she was going to find her clothes. 

“Really, sweetie?” Root’s voice was lazy, confident, and infuriating. Even as Shaw started to get off the bed, Root snagged her arm, overbalanced her, and had her on her back again. 

“Look, Root, I’ve got shit to deal with. We’ve had our fun for now.” 

“I don’t know as I’d qualify what has happened between us this evening as just ‘fun’. I’d say it was more intense than that. I don’t feel like we’re done here yet.” Root grinned when Shaw’s eyes narrowed. “Do you—?” 

She lost her breath, and with it her words, when Shaw’s elbow shot into her stomach. In the blink of an eye, Shaw had reversed their positions. That well-aimed elbow was now pressing dangerously on Root’s thoat. 

“Listen, Root, I come and go as I please, so check your ego.” 

“Whatever you say, Sameen. It’s not my ego that’s swelling right now, though.” Root’s eyelashes fluttered and her thumb drew lazy circles on the arm that pressed on her throat.

Shaw blinked at her in disbelief. _Does she ever stop?_

“Interfering with an officer in the course of their duty will earn you one to five, Root. That’s in a cage, not cushy home detention.” 

“You’re not wearing your badge. Or anything else, for that matter.” Root gave her a friendly little bite on the chin. “Be sure to put that in your arrest report.” 

“I’m not going to argue.” Shaw was quite proud of how civil she sounded. “I just have to go.” 

Root’s other hand slowly caressed the length of Shaw’s still-sensitive back and down over her ass. Shaw remained motionless, Root’s touch like silk on her skin, her nails leaving lightly-stinging trails behind. Shaw caught her breath as a surge of heat suddenly went through her once more. Root looked up at her steadily as her fingers slid between Shaw’s legs and began to stroke. 

“You know you can go at any time you _want_ to, Sameen. I just don’t know if you _have_ to.” She watched as Shaw’s eyes widened and then fluttered half closed when Root slipped her fingers inside. “No, don’t shut your eyes.” Her voice was low, almost rough. 

So, Shaw kept her eyes on Root’s, allowing the fresh wave of pleasure to fill her. She moved her arm away from Root’s neck so she could hold her position on all fours and rock down on her fingers. Root kept the rhythm slow now, with long, deep strokes that went right to her core. 

Shaw’s breath quickened and became thick as Root’s touch went on and on. All she could see was Root’s face and dark eyes, all she could feel was that lovely, fluid slide of her fingers inside, her thumb making random circles over Shaw’s clit, all in a smooth, easy motion that had soon had an orgasm brimming in her like liquid gold. 

The fingers on Root’s free hand linked with hers as the sensation spilled over and Shaw came with a long exhalation of pleasure. Her lips curved as she rested her forehead on Root’s and waited for her breathing to slow, Root’s other hand gently drifting along her back. Shaw eventually lowered herself to the bed and they lay close together, fingers still tangled. Root turned her head and pressed a kiss to her temple. 

“Stay,” she murmured. “Please.” 

“Okay.” Shaw decided she didn’t want to move, for now. “Yeah. Okay, Root.” She closed her eyes and rested for a while. 

* * *

They didn’t sleep. But it wasn’t fatigue so much as bafflement that was Shaw’s primary emotion when she stepped into Root’s shower early in the morning. She ordered it on at 42 degrees and simply let the hot water run over her face and through her loose hair. 

Shaw didn’t spend nights with bed partners. She’d always been careful to keep sex simple—no muss, no fuss. Yet here she was the morning after, letting herself be pounded by the hot pulse of the fancy shower jets. Just like, for hours, she had let herself be pounded by Root. 

She was trying to regret it. It seemed important that she realize and recognize her mistake and move on, but it was difficult to regret anything that made her body feel so alive and kept the dreams at bay. 

“You look good wet, lieutenant.” 

_Oh my fucking god, it just gets worse._ Shaw did a monumental eye roll as Root stepped through the spray, fighting the temptation to stare at her long elegant form and smooth skin as the water flowed over it. “I’m going to need to borrow a shirt.” 

“We’ll find you one.” Root touched a spot on the tiled walls and cupped her hand under a small spigot to catch a puddle of a transparent forest-green-tinted liquid. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Washing your hair,” Root answered as she folded out a low wooden bench from an alcove in the wall and pressed Shaw onto it. Shaw just sat, mouth slightly open until she caught herself. Calmly, like it was their usual routine, Root proceeded to massage the shampoo into Shaw’s long fall of hair and then rinse it thoroughly with a hand-held shower nozzle. Shaw’s mind had basically short-circuited—and having her hair cared for felt good—so she simply remained where she was, unspeaking, while Root did her thing. 

“I’m going to enjoy smelling my soap on you.” Root’s lips quirked as she carefully squeezed out the excess water from Shaw’s hair. “I admire your focus, Sameen. Here we are, wet, naked, both of us half dead from a very memorable night, and still you watch me with those suspicious eyes.” 

Shaw looked steadily back at her. Root managed to not look like a drowned rat, even with her damp hair tucked behind her ears and clinging to her neck. Shaw’s eyes tracked down over the tendrils straggling past her fine collarbones and beyond. Root’s face and upper chest were pink from the water’s heat, as were the tips of her small but perfectly-shaped breasts. Shaw’s gaze drifted over the subtle swell of Root’s belly to her delicate hip bones. She felt her color rise at a flash of memory of those hips cradling hers as she’d ground down between them, Root’s body arching up hungrily to meet hers, while her fingers dug into Shaw’s tender shoulders. 

Shaw dragged her eyes away from where they had roamed to Root’s long, shapely legs to look back up at her face. Root’s eyes were a little tired but had a very self-satisfied expression in them. Her lips curved into a one-sided smile as their eyes met. She had obviously, and very annoyingly, noticed Shaw’s stare lingering over her body. 

Shaw made a scoffing sound, belatedly. “You’re a suspicious character, Root.” 

“I think that’s a compliment.” 

“You’re full of it.” 

“Am I?” Root smiled again, deliberately smug. Didn’t Shaw realise that those guarded eyes, that social wall she was patently trying to rebuild, were an irresistible challenge? Apparently not. She leaned down and tugged lightly at Shaw’s soapy nipples, smiling when she sucked in a breath. “Well, someone’s about to be.” 

“Are you fucking serious?” Shaw found herself being pulled up from the bench, and Root essentially pirouetted her around so that Shaw’s hands ended up against the tiled wall, with Root pressed up behind her. “I have shit to do, Root.” 

“That’s fine, sweetie. This won’t take too long.” Root felt a hard surge of lust when she cupped Shaw’s breasts firmly with her hands and heard her exhale sharply. 

She stepped back and spanked Shaw’s perfect ass, twice on each cheek, her wet skin making the impacts echo loudly against the bathroom walls. Shaw’s nostrils flared and she bit her bottom lip. “Again?” asked Root politely. Shaw nodded, the water streaming through her hair and down her back, and she shifted her legs apart a little. 

Root stroked her ass gently and she laid down two more hard slaps on each cheek, then one right between her legs. Shaw caught her breath and she squeezed her thighs together on Root’s hand, trying to get some friction. Root stepped in close and began to move her hand gently, twisting her wrist and slipping two of her fingers inside as Shaw moved her thighs apart again and rocked her ass back against her. Root shifted slightly to one side and reached around, her breasts sliding against Shaw’s back, and stroked her in time with the movement of her fingers inside. Shaw’s knees shook, but she braced her hands against the tiled wall and fucked herself hard on Root’s hands, an intense sound of pleasure escaping from behind her clenched teeth as she came after a minute or so of the double-handed assault. 

Root inhaled sharply as Shaw immediately flexed her arms and pushed them both back from the wall. She pivoted them carefully around and seated herself again on the low bench. She grabbed Root by the hips and pulled her close, then tugged on Root’s leg to pull one of her feet up beside her on the bench. Grabbing her ass with both hands, Shaw proceeded to thoroughly eat Root out with an intensity that stunned her. She climaxed violently in an unbelievably short amount of time, slapping a hand on the wall to maintain her balance. 

She stood there quivering for a few seconds, letting the water stream through the hair hanging in front of her downturned face, while Shaw, still holding her ass, gently rubbed the side of her face against Root’s thigh. She felt suddenly overcome with the full awareness of the depth of her desire for Shaw. How it seemed almost endless, dangerously so. How the strength of it was able to strip away her self-control and finesse until she was no more than a rutting animal. 

She brushed her thumb against Shaw’s jawline and backed gently away. “I’ll get you a shirt,” she said quietly. “Hot towels on this rack here, dryer tube over there. Take anything else you need.” She then stepped out, flicked a couple of towels from the rack, and left Shaw alone in the billowing steam. 

* * *

By the time Shaw was dressed, frowning over the feel of raw silk against her skin, there was a tray of coffee waiting in the sitting area of the bedroom. The morning news chattered quietly on the wall screen, constant figures scrolling along the bottom–the stock exchange, financial markets. A folded-out link on the table displayed a newspaper. Not the _Times_ or one of the New York tabs, Shaw noted. It looked like Japanese. 

“Do you have time for breakfast?” Root sat near the table, fully dressed in a stylish deconstructed suit and sapphire blue shirt, sipping her coffee. 

For Root, there had been no point trying to pay full attention to the morning data. She’d been unable to tear her eyes away from watching Shaw dress: the way her hands had hesitated over the fine fabric of the shirt before she’d shrugged into it, how her fingers had run quickly up the buttons, the shimmy of her hips as she’d tugged on her jeans. It had almost been a distraction from the thoughts chasing through Root’s mind at present. Almost, but not quite. 

“No, thanks.” Shaw wasn’t sure of her moves now. Root had fucked her blind in the shower, Shaw had returned the favour, and now Root was demurely sitting there playing the well-mannered host. Shaw strapped into her holster before crossing to accept the coffee Root had already poured her. 

“The weapon makes you look powerful, lieutenant,” said Root. She tilted her head, studying her. 

Shaw said nothing and swallowed some coffee. 

“Not because of the weapon,” Root went on. “But the skill, competence it implies. That you wield something so powerful as a matter of routine. Something powerful, lethal, that you keep close to yourself at all times.” She shook her head a little, seemingly at herself, and smiled a polite kind of smile. “The shirt’s a bit large, but it suits you.” 

Shaw didn’t feel that anything she could wear on her back that cost close to a week’s pay could possibly suit her. “I’ll get it back to you.” 

“I have several others.” Root rose, unsettling Shaw slightly as she came close and gazed at her soberly. “Tell me, please, Sameen. Any of this not been okay?” 

Root’s question, so unexpected, vaguely embarrassed her. “I know what the word ‘stop’ means, Root. I’d have used it if I wanted to.” Shaw didn’t need to spell out the rest. She shifted her feet, then drained her cup and set it aside. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“I have, a bit,” Root admitted. “Taking risks is part of life, a fun part. But I’m not into being careless.” 

Shaw gave her a wry smile. “Something else we have in common, maybe.” 

Root gave her a tiny smile back, a real one this time. 

“Okay, Root. Know that I’ll tell you if something feels off. That’s always been the rules. Same for you.” 

Root nodded, her expression lightening. “Absolutely, Sameen.” 

Shaw had to smirk. “Do you really think I wouldn’t be able to _make_ you stop anytime I wanted?” 

“Well, no,” said Root ruefully. “Not at all.” 

“You think right, then.” 

Root took Shaw’s hand and lifted it to her lips, her confidence seemingly back online from Shaw’s matter-of-factness. “It seems like that goes both ways too. You’ll be thinking of me, Shaw.” 

“I’m in the middle of a murder investigation. You’re part of it. Sure, I’ll think of you.” 

“Sweetie,” Root began, watching with amusement as Shaw's eyes rolled at her use of the endearment, as always. “You’ll be thinking of what I can do _to_ you. Sadly, I won’t be able to do more than imagine it myself for a few days.” 

Shaw tugged her hand free and reached, casually she hoped, for her bag. “Going somewhere?” 

“The preliminary work on the resort requires my presence on FreeStar One for a number of meetings with the directorship. I’ll be tied up, a few hundred thousand kilometers away, for a day or two.” 

An emotion moved through Shaw that she wasn’t ready to admit was disappointment. “Yeah, I heard you wrapped the deal on that major indulgence for the bored rich.” 

Root simply smiled. “When the resort’s complete, I’ll take you there. You may form another opinion. In the meantime, I have to ask you for your discretion. The meetings are confidential. There’s still a loose end or two to tie up and it wouldn’t do for my competitors to know we’re getting underway so quickly. Only a few key people will know I’m not here in New York.” 

“So why are you telling me?” 

“Apparently, I’ve decided you’re a key person.” Internally, Root was as disconcerted by how deeply she felt that as Shaw appeared to be on hearing it, given the sudden lack of expression on her face. Smoothing the moment over, Root led the way to the door. “If you need to contact me, tell Hersh. He’ll put you through.” 

“The butler?” 

“He’ll see to it,” was all Root said as they descended the stairs. “I’ll be gone about five days, a week at the most. I want to see you again.” She stopped and took Shaw’s face in her hands. “I need to see you again.” 

Shaw’s pulse jumped, as if it had nothing to do with the rest of her. “Root, what the hell is going on here?” 

“Lieutenant.” Root leaned forward and touched her lips to Shaw’s. “Indications are we aren’t done figuring out that _thing_ between us yet.” She made a teasing, rueful face, then laughed and kissed Shaw again, hard and quick. “I swear I could hold a gun to your head and you wouldn’t look as spooked. You’ll have several days to think it over, at least.” 

Shaw had a feeling several _years_ wouldn’t be enough time to think it over. 

Hersh was standing there at the base of the stairs, stone-faced, holding her hoodie. Shaw tried not to think about what would have crossed his mind when he found it on the floor of the shooting range. Along with her ripped sleeve and several buttons off her shirt. And Root's belt. She took the hoodie and glanced at Root as she zipped it over her shirt. 

“Have a good trip.” 

“Thanks.” Root laid a hand on her shoulder before she could walk out the door. “Be careful, Shaw.” 

Shaw simply looked back at her, her well-defined brows slightly drawn together, the spatter of tiny freckles on her nose clearly visible in the morning light. Annoyed with herself, Root dropped her hand. “I’ll be in touch.” 

“Yeah, sure, Root.” Shaw strode outside, and when she glanced back, the door was closed. Her vehicle was waiting at the foot of the stairs, facing toward the gate. Its alert function spoke as she settled into the driver's seat: `Message waiting.`

“Read message,” said Shaw, as she set the vehicle in motion and proceeded down the driveway. 

Root’s voice drawled out: “ _I don’t like the idea of you shivering unless I cause it. Stay warm, sweetie._ ” 

Shaw frowned and experimentally touched the temperature control. The resultant blast of heat had her grunting aloud in surprise. A smile then broke out on her face, and she grinned all the way to Cop Central. 

* * *

Shaw closed herself in her office. She had two hours before her official shift began and she wanted to use every minute of it on the Hallen-Starr homicides. When her shift kicked in, her duties would spread to a number of cases in varying degrees of progress. This time was her own. 

As a matter of routine, she cued IRCCA to transmit any and all current data and ordered it tagged for review later. The transmission was depressingly brief and added nothing solid. Back to deductive games, then. On her desk, she’d spread out pics of both victims. She knew them intimately now, these women. Perhaps now, after the night she’d spent with Root, she understood something of what had driven them. 

Sex was a powerful tool to use or have used against you. Both of these women had wanted to wield it, to control it. In the end, someone infected with a twisted-up perversion of that powerful force had killed them. A bullet in the brain had been the official cause of death for both, but Shaw saw sexualised violence as the trigger. It was the only connection between the victims and the only common link to their murderer. 

Thoughtfully, she picked up the .38 that they had recovered from the scene at Claire Hallen’s. It was familiar in her hand now. She knew exactly how it felt when it fired, the way the punch of it sung up the arm. The sound it made when the mechanism, the explosive, and basic physics sent the bullet flying. Still holding the gun, she cued up the vid she’d preloaded and watched Claire Hallen’s murder again. 

What did you feel, you asshole? What did you feel when you squeezed the trigger and sent that slug of lead into her, when the blood sprayed out, when she died? _What did you feel?_

Eyes narrowed, she reran the vid. She was almost immune to the nastiness of it now. There was, she noted, the slightest waver in the vid, as if the camera had been jostled. Did your arm jerk? she wondered. Did it shock you, the way her body flew back, how far the blood splattered? Is that why she could hear a soft sob of breath, a slow exhale before the image changed? 

She leaned closer to the monitor. Claire was carefully arranged now, the scene set as the camera panned her objectively and, yes, Shaw thought, coldly. Then why the jostle? Why the sob? And the note. She picked up the sealed envelope and read it again. How did you know you’d be satisfied to stop at six? Have you already picked them out? Selected them? 

Dissatisfied, she stopped the vid, and replaced the .38. After loading the Starr vid and taking the second weapon, Shaw ran through the process again. No jostle this time, she noted. No quick, indrawn breath. Everything’s smooth, precise, exact. You knew this time, she thought, how it would feel, how she’d look, how the blood would smell. 

But you didn’t know her. Or she didn’t know you. You were just Chris Smith in her book, marked as a new client. How did you choose her? 

_How are you going to choose the next one?_

Just before nine, when Finch knocked on her door, she was studying a map of Manhattan. He stepped behind her and looked over her shoulder. 

“Thinking of relocating, Shaw?” 

“I’m trying geography. Widen view five percent,” she ordered the link. The image adjusted. “First murder, second murder,” she said, nodding toward the tiny red pulses on Broadway and in the West Village. “My place.” There was a green pulse just off Ninth Avenue. 

“Your place?” 

“The perp knows where I live, has been there twice. These are the three places we can definitely put the killer. I was hoping I’d be able to confine the area, but it’s too spread out. And the security.” She gave a small sigh as she eased back in her chair. “Three different systems. Starr’s was all but nonexistent. Electronic doorman, inoperable—and it had been, according to other residents, for a couple of weeks. Hallen had top grade, key code for entry, hand plate, full building security—audio and video. Had to be breached on-site. Our time lag only hits one elevator and the victim’s hallway. Mine’s not as fancy. I could breach the entry, any decent B and E cracker could. But I’ve got a System 5000 police lock on the door. You have to be a real pro to pop it without the master code.” 

Drumming her fingers on the desk, she scowled at the map. “The killer’s a security expert, knows their weapons—old weapons, Finch. They’ve cued in enough to department procedure to tag me for the primary investigator within hours of the first hit. No fingerprints, bodily fluids, DNA. Not even a fucking pubic hair. What does that tell you?” 

Finch compressed his mouth, considering. “Cop. Military. Maybe paramilitary or government security. Could be a security hobbyist; there are plenty of them. Possible professional criminal, but unlikely.” 

“Why unlikely?” 

“If the perpetrator was making a living off crime, why murder? There’s no profit in either of these hits.” 

“Maybe they’re taking a vacation,” Shaw said, but it didn’t play for her either. 

“Perhaps. I’ve run known sex offenders, crossed with IRCCA. Nobody pops who fits the MO. Have you seen this report yet?” he asked, indicating the IRCCA transmission. 

“No. Why?” 

“I already tagged it this morning. You might be surprised that there were about a hundred gun assaults last year, countrywide. About that many accidental, too.” He raised a shoulder. “Bootlegged, homemade, black market, collectors.” 

“But nobody fits our profile.” 

“Unfortunately not.” He looked contemplative. “No serious sex offenders either. I’ll boost the search on those and the professionals. Perhaps we’ll get lucky.” 

Lips pursed, she shook her head a little, and then swiveled to look at him. “Finch, you have an interest—you know something about antique firearms.” 

“I do.” 

“You know any other cops who have an interest, who maybe collect?” 

“A few. yes. It’s an expensive hobby, so most of the ones I know of collect reproductions. And speaking of expensive,” he added, “I’ve noticed that fine shirt you have on today, Shaw. Come into some extra funds?” 

“It’s borrowed,” she muttered, surprised she had to control a flush. “Run them for me, Finch. The cops that own genuine antiques.” 

Finch grimaced at the thought of focusing on his own people. “This would not be a good scenario.” 

“No, it wouldn’t be. Run them anyway. Keep it to the city for now.” 

“Of course.” He sighed a little. “Not the best way to start the day. I’ve got something unpleasant for you as well, Shaw. There was a message for me when I arrived earlier. The chief’s on his way into the commander’s office. He wants both of us.” 

“Fuck that.” 

Finch simply looked at his watch. “I make it in five minutes. Maybe you want to put on a hoodie or something, so Simmons doesn’t get a good look at that silk shirt and decide we’re overpaid.” 

“Fuck that, too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up moving 1500 words to the next chapter at the last minute to keep the length down a little. So yay, that chapter is here too! Introducing Ms Zoe Morgan, ace reporter.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw finds herself in hot water with the brass and things are not looking good there. But she gets to meet Zoe Morgan, ace reporter, and they strike a deal. Shaw has a much-needed personal debrief with Fusco immediately after. And just to round off the day, a new death lands on her plate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The death in this chapter is not at all gruesome. Just another tiring slog for poor Shaw.

Chief Patrick Simmons was an imposing figure. Tall and fighting trim, he preferred dark suits and sober ties. His militarily-short hair was practically white. His eyes were a steely blue, his mouth thin, tight. The public perception of him was of hard-nosed power and authority. It was disillusioning to know how carelessly he used both to roll over for his political masters. 

He sat down, steepling his long hands. His voice, when he spoke, sounded as authoritative as his appearance. “Commander, lieutenants, we have a delicate situation.” He paused and let those hard blue eyes scan each face in turn. 

“You’re all aware of how the media enjoys sensationalism,” he continued. “Our city has, in the five years of my jurisdiction, lowered its crime rate by five percent. A full percentage point each year. But with these crimes, this tremendous progress will be ignored by the press. There are already lurid headlights about the two killings. There are news stories questioning the effectiveness of our investigation, and the media is increasingly demanding answers.” 

Elias, who detested Simmons with every pore, responded in a mild tone. “The stories lack detail, chief. The Code Five on the Hallen case makes it impossible for investigators to cooperate with the press or feed reporters in a way that will satisfy them.” 

“By not feeding them,” Simmons snapped back, “we allow them to continue speculating wildly. I’ll be making a media statement this afternoon.” He held up a hand even as Elias started to protest. “We need to give the public something substantial, to boost confidence that the department has the matter under control. Even if it isn’t the case.” 

Elias, Shaw and Finch all stiffened in their seats at the implied insult.

His eyes zeroed in on Shaw. “As the primary, lieutenant, you will also attend the press conference. My office is preparing a statement for you to deliver.” 

“With all due respect, Chief Simmons, I can’t publicly divulge any details of the case that might compromise the investigation.” 

Simmons's gaze at her hardened. “Lieutenant, I have thirty years of experience. I know how to handle a press conference. Secondly,” he continued, dismissing her by turning back to Commander Elias, “it’s imperative that the link the press has made between the Hallen and Starr homicides be broken. This department will not be the cause of any embarrassment to Senator Hallen personally or disrespect of his office. But that's what will happen if we join these two cases at the hip.” 

“The murderer did that for us,” Shaw said from between her teeth. 

Simmons barely spared her a glance. “Officially, there is no connection. When asked, deny.” 

“When asked,” Shaw corrected. “Lie.” 

“Save your personal ethics. This is the real world. A scandal that starts here and creates noise in East Washington will come back on us like Armageddon. Claire Hallen has been dead over a week and you still have nothing. Zip.” 

“We have the weapon,” Shaw retorted. “We've identified blackmail as a possible motive. We have a shortlist of suspects.” 

His color came up as he shot out of his chair. He placed both hands on the table and leaned on them, glowering at her. “I'm the head of this department, lieutenant. The mess you make with your screwing around is left for _me_ to clean up. It’s time for you to stop digging at useless crap and close this case.” 

“Sir.” Finch spoke up. “Lieutenant Shaw and I—” 

“Can both be on Traffic Detail in a fucking heartbeat,” Simmons finished. 

Fists clenched, Elias stood slowly. “Don’t threaten my officers, Simmons. You go ahead and play your games, look tough for the cameras, do your favours for East Washington. But don’t come on my turf and threaten my people. They’re on and they stay on. You want to change that, you try going through me.” 

Simmons’s color deepened further and Shaw noticed a vein throb at his temple. “Your people press the wrong buttons on this, commander, and it’ll be your ass. I’ve got Senator Hallen under control for the moment, but he’s not happy with the primary running off to pressure his daughter-in-law, invading her privacy as she grieves, to ask her embarrassing, irrelevant questions. Senator Hallen and his family are victims, not suspects, and are to be accorded due respect and dignity during this investigation.” 

“I accorded Connie Wyler and Graham Hallen all due respect and dignity.” Very deliberately, Shaw locked down her temper. “The interview was conducted with their consent and cooperation. I was not aware that I was required to obtain permission from you or the senator to proceed as I felt necessary on this case.” 

“I will not have the press speculating that this department harasses grieving parents or about why the primary resisted mandatory testing after a termination.” 

“Lieutenant Shaw’s testing was postponed at my order,” Elias said coldly, “and with your approval.” 

“I’m well aware of that.” Simmons angled his head. “I’m talking about speculation in the press. We're all under a microscope until this killer is stopped. Lieutenant Shaw’s record and her actions will be up for public dissection.” 

“My record will stand it.” 

“And your actions?” Simmons said with a faint smile. “How do you explain the fact that you’re jeopardizing the case and your position by indulging in a personal relationship with a suspect? What do you think my official position will be, if and when it comes out that you spent at least one night with that suspect?” 

Shaw's internal control kept her seated in place, her eyes flat, her voice even. “I’m sure you’d hang me to save yourself, Chief Simmons.” 

“Without hesitation,” he agreed. “Be at City Hall. Noon, sharp.” 

When the door shut behind him, Commander Elias sat again and ran a hand over his balding head. “Son of a bitch.” His sharp eyes immediately cut to Shaw. “What the hell are you doing?” He said it in an ultra quiet voice that meant business. 

Shaw was forced to accept that as of now, her private life was no longer private. “I spent the night with Root. It was a personal decision, on my personal time. In my professional opinion, as primary investigator, she has been eliminated as a suspect. It doesn’t negate the fact that my behavior was inadvisable.” 

“Inadvisable?” Elias said curtly. “Try asinine. Try career suicide. Damn it, Shaw, can’t you keep your libido in check? I don’t expect this from you.” 

She didn’t expect it from herself, either. “It doesn’t affect the investigation or my ability to continue it. If you think differently, you’re wrong. If you pull me off, you’ll have to take my badge, too.” 

Elias's gaze drilled into her for a couple more seconds. “You make damn sure Root is eliminated from the shortlist, Shaw. Damn sure she’s eliminated or booked within thirty-six hours. And you ask yourself some hard questions.” 

“I’ve already asked,” she interrupted, with an intense relief that only she knew she experienced when he didn’t call for her badge—yet. “How did Simmons know where I spent last night? I’m being monitored. On Simmons's authority or Hallen's? Another question is _why_. Did someone leak the information to Simmons to damage my credibility, and through that, try to undermine the investigation?” 

“I expect you to find out.” Elias jerked a thumb toward the door. “Watch yourself at that press conference, Shaw.” 

She and Finch had taken no more than three strides down the corridor when Finch burst out, “What on earth are you _doing_ , Shaw?” 

“I didn’t plan it, okay?” She slapped her hand on the elevator call and jammed her hands in her pockets. “Back off.” 

“Root’s on the shortlist. She’s one of the last people we know of who saw Claire Hallen alive. She’s extremely wealthy and can buy anything, or appear to, including immunity.” 

“She doesn’t fit type.” She stomped into the elevator, barked out her floor, and scowled at Finch as he limped on after her. “I know what I’m doing.” 

“At the present time, I’m not so sure about that. In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you so much as stumble on a question of professional integrity. Now you’ve fallen face first over one.” 

“It was just sex. Not all of us are complete hermits or have nice comfortable home lives. I wanted someone to touch me and she wanted to be the one. It’s none of your goddamn business who I sleep with.” 

He caught her arm before she could storm out of the elevator. “Don’t brush this off, Shaw. I’m concerned about how this will affect you.” 

She fought back the rage at being questioned, at being probed, at having her most private moments invaded. She turned back to him, lowering her voice to almost a whisper so that no one else walking along the corridor could overhear. 

“Am I a good cop, Finch?” 

“You’re extremely capable, among the very best. That’s why—” 

She held up a hand. “What makes a good investigator?” 

He sighed. “Intelligence, awareness, patience, nerve, instinct.” 

“My intellect, my awareness, my instincts tell me it’s not Root. Every time I try to turn it around and point it at her, I hit a wall. It’s not her. I’ve got the patience, Finch, and the nerve to keep at it until we find out who it really is.” 

His eyes stayed on hers. “And if you’re wrong this time, Shaw?” 

“If I’m wrong, they won’t have to ask for my badge.” She took a deliberate breath. “Finch, if I’m wrong about this, about her, I’m finished. All the way finished. Because if I’m not a good investigator, a good cop, I’m nothing.” 

“Shaw, I don’t think that—” 

She shook her head, cutting him off. “Run the cop list for me, will you? I’ve got some calls to make.” 

* * *

Press conferences left a bad taste in Shaw’s mouth. She stood on the steps of City Hall, on a stage set by Simmons with his patriotic tie and his gold NYPSD lapel pin. He was in his Strong Protector of the City mode, his voice ringing out authoritatively while he read his statement. 

A statement, Shaw thought in disgust, that was riddled with lies, half truths, and plenty of self-aggrandizement. According to Simmons, he would have no rest until the murderer of young Lola Starr was brought to justice. 

When questioned about any connections between the Starr homicide and the mysterious death of Senator Hallen’s granddaughter, he flatly denied it. The words were barely out of his mouth when he was interrupted by a shout from Channel 75’s on-air ace, Zoe Morgan. 

“Chief Simmons, I have information that indicates the Starr homicide is linked with the Hallen case—and not just because both women were engaged in the same profession.” 

“It’s unwise to jump to conclusions based on unofficial sources, Zoe.” Simmons gave a brief, thin smile. “We all know that all kind of information is passed to you and your associates and that it’s often inaccurate. That’s why I set up the Data Verification Center in the first year of my term as chief of police. You have only to check with the DVC for accurate facts.” 

Shaw managed to hold back a snort, but Zoe, with her sharp eyes and agile brain, didn’t bother. “My source claims that Claire Hallen’s death was not an accident—as the DVC asserts—but murder. That both Hallen and Starr were killed by the same method and the same individual.” 

This caused an uproar in the huddle of news teams, a scattershot of demands and questions that had Simmons’s face hardening as he lost the affable facade. 

“The department stands behind its position that there is no connection between these unfortunate incidents,” Simmons barked, but Shaw saw his hunted look beneath the bluster. “And my office stands behind the investigators.” 

His eyes shot to Shaw, and she knew, in that instant, what it was to be picked up bodily and thrown to a pack of wolves. 

“Lieutenant Shaw, a veteran officer with more than ten years of experience on the force, is the primary investigator of the Starr homicide. She’ll be happy to answer your questions.” 

Trapped, Shaw stepped forward while Simmons bent down so that his weasley aide could whisper rapid-fire advice in his ear. Questions rained down on her and she waited, filtering them until she heard one she wanted to deal with. 

“How was Lola Starr murdered?” 

“In order to protect the integrity of the investigation, I’m not at liberty to disclose the method.” She suffered through the ensuing shouts, cursing Simmons internally. “I will state that Lola Starr, an eighteen-year-old licensed companion, was murdered, with violence and premeditation. Evidence indicates that she was killed by a client.” 

That fed them for a while, Shaw noted. Several reporters checked with base via their links. 

“Was Claire Hallen also killed by a client?” Zoe demanded. 

Shaw met her canny eyes with a level gaze. “The department has not issued any official statement that Claire Hallen was murdered.” 

“My source names you as primary in both cases. Will you confirm?” 

It was rocky ground. Shaw stepped onto it. “Yes. I’m primary on several ongoing investigations.” 

“Why would a ten-year vet be assigned to an accidental death?” 

Shaw smiled—yeah, she could pull pleasantness out of her ass occasionally. “Want me to define bureaucracy?” 

That drew some chuckles, but it didn’t put Zoe off the scent. 

“Is the Hallen case still ongoing?” 

Any answer would stir a hornet’s nest, so Shaw simply opted for the truth. “Yes. And it will remain ongoing until I, as primary, am satisfied with its disposition. However,” she continued, rolling over the shouts. “No more emphasis will be given to Claire Hallen’s death than any other. Including Lola Starr’s. Let’s not pretend. You’re all here because of the Hallen name. A single death? Two deaths that might be linked due to the victims’ occupations? Even that doesn’t normally bring out the cameras.”

Shaw looked up at the micro-drones hovering around her and the chief, then back at the media pack. “But no matter what their name is, every person, every case that comes across my desk is treated equally, regardless of family or social background. Lola Starr was a young woman with no social status, no influential background, no important friends. Now, after a few short months in New York, she’s dead. Murdered. She deserves the best I can give her, and that’s what she’s going to get.” 

Shaw scanned the crowd in the momentary silence and zeroed in on Zoe again. “You want a story, Ms. Morgan. I want a killer. I figure my wants are more important than yours, so that’s all I have to say.” 

She turned on her heel, shot Simmons a laser-like glare, and then strode away. She could hear him struggling with the deluge of questions as she headed down the steps toward her vehicle. 

“Lieutenant Shaw.” Zoe, in low-heeled shoes built for style and movement, raced after her. 

“I said I’m finished. Talk to Chief Simmons.” 

“Hey, if I want to wade through bullshit, I can call the DVC. That was a pretty impassioned statement. Didn’t sound like Simmons’s speech writer.” 

“I speak for myself.” Shaw reached her vehicle and started to open the door, when Zoe touched her shoulder. Shaw gave her a stare but Zoe did not budge. 

“You like to play it straight. So do I. You’re right, lieutenant. We—the media—are here today because of the Hallen name. You also know that without the money we earn from views related to that name, there would be no cameras, no interviews. But with the media here now, it was right to highlight Lola Starr’s name, to talk about the justice that she deserves. We’ve got different methods, but similar goals. I want justice for these two victims as well.” 

Shaw nodded curtly and Zoe smiled. Her immaculately made-up face filled with charm, seemingly genuine. “So that’s why I want to talk to you. You didn’t bullshit with denials about a possible connection, unlike your boss. I’m not going to bullshit about the old ‘public’s right to know.’” 

“You’d be wasting your time.” 

“What I am going to say is we’ve got two women dead in a week. My information and my gut tells me they were both murdered. I don’t figure you’re going to confirm that.” 

“You figure right.” 

“What I want is a deal. You let me know if I’m on the right track, and I hold off going out with anything that undermines your investigation. When you’ve got something solid and you’re ready to move on it, you call me. I get an exclusive on the arrest—live.” 

Almost amused, Shaw leaned against her vehicle. “What are you going to give me for that, Zoe? A handshake and a smile?” 

“For that I’m going to give you everything my source has passed to me. Everything.” 

Now Shaw was interested. “Including the source?” 

“I couldn’t do that if I had to. Point is, I don’t. What I do have, Shaw, is a storage cube, delivered to me at the studio. On it are copies of police reports, including autopsies on both victims, and a couple of nasty little videos of two dead women.” 

“Fuck that. If you had half of what you’re telling me, you’d have been on air in a heartbeat.” 

“I thought about it,” Zoe admitted. “But this is bigger than ratings. Hell of a lot bigger. I want a story, Shaw, one that’s going to get me the Pulitzer, the International News Award, and whatever else I can score.” 

Her eyes changed, hardened. She wasn’t smiling any more. “But I saw what someone did to those women. Maybe the story comes first with me, but it’s not all. I pushed Simmons today, and I pushed you. I liked the way you pushed back, on me, on all of us. You can deal with me or I can go out on my own. Your choice.” 

Shaw paused for a few moments. A fleet of taxis cruised by, as did a maxibus with its humming electric motor. “Okay. We deal.” Before Morgan could get too pleased with herself, Shaw gave her a hard look. “You cross me on this, Zoe, you cross me by so much as an inch, and I’ll bury you.” 

“Fair enough.” 

“The Blue Squirrel, twenty minutes.” 

* * *

The afternoon crowd at the club was too bored to do much more than huddle over their drinks. Shaw found a corner table and ordered a fizzy and the veggie pasta. Zoe slid in across from her. She chose the chicken plate with no-oil fries. An indication, Shaw noted dourly, of the wide difference between a cop’s salary and a reporter’s. 

“What have you got?” Shaw asked. 

“A picture’s worth several hundred thousand words.” Zoe took her link out of her bag—her red leather bag, Shaw noted with envy. She had a weakness for leather and bold colors that she could rarely indulge. 

Zoe flipped the link out to tablet size, attached the storage cube and handed it to Shaw. There was little use in swearing, Shaw decided, as she saw her own reports appear on the display. Stony-faced, she ran through the Code Five data, official medical reports, the ME’s findings. She stopped it when the vids began. There was no need to look at all that death again. 

“Is it accurate?” Zoe asked when Shaw passed the link back. 

“It’s accurate.” 

“So the guy’s some sort of gun freak, a security expert who patronizes LCs.” 

“The evidence indicates that profile.” 

“How far have you narrowed it down?” 

“Not far enough.” 

Zoe waited while their food was served. “There’s got to be a lot of political pressure on you from the Hallen end.” 

“I don’t play politics.” 

“Your chief does.” Zoe took a bite of her chicken. Shaw smirked as she winced. “Christ, this is terrible.” She shrugged and she shifted to the fries. “It’s no secret Hallen is front runner for the Conservative Party’s nomination this summer. Or that prick, Simmons, is shooting for governor. Given the show this afternoon, it looks like a cover-up.” 

“At this point, publicly, there is no connection between the cases. But I meant what I said about equality, Zoe. I don’t care who Claire Hallen’s granddaddy is. I’m going to find the asshole who did her.” 

“And when you do, is the asshole going to be charged with both murders, or only with Claire’s?” 

“That’s up to the prosecuting attorney. Personally, I don’t give a shit, as long as I hang the perp.” 

“That’s the difference between you and me, Shaw.” Zoe waved a fry, then bit in. “I want it all. When you get the killer and I break the story, the PA’s not going to have a choice. The fallout’s going to keep Hallen busy for months.” 

“Now who’s playing politics?” 

Zoe lifted a shoulder. “Hey, I just report the story, I don’t make it. And this one’s got it all. Sex, violence, money. Besides, having a name like Root’s involved—she’s all over those reports—is going to shoot the ratings through the roof.” 

Very deliberately and without batting an eye, Shaw swallowed a bite of pasta. “There’s no evidence linking Root to the crimes.” 

“She knew Hallen—she’s a friend of the family. Christ, she even owns the building where Claire was killed. She’s got one of the top weapon collections in the world. That’s common knowledge. Not so common is the information I have that she’s an expert shot.” 

Shaw picked up her drink. “Neither of the murder weapons can be traced to her. She has no connection with Lola Starr.” 

“Maybe not. But even as a peripheral character, Root sells news. And it’s no state secret that she and the senator have bumped heads in the past. The woman’s got ice in her veins,” she added with a shrug. “I don’t imagine she’d have any problem with a couple of cold-blooded killings. But…” She paused to lift her own drink. “She’s also a very private person. It’s hard to picture her bragging about the murders by sending vids to reporters. Somebody does that, they want publicity as much as they want to get away with the crime.” 

“An interesting theory.” Shaw’d had enough. A headache was beginning to brew behind her eyes and the pasta wasn’t going to sit well. She rose, then leaned over the table toward Zoe. “I’ll give you another one, formulated by a cop. Do you want to know who your source is, Zoe?” 

Her dark eyes glittered. “Damn right I do.” 

“Your source is the killer.” Shaw paused, watching the shine go out of Zoe’s eyes. “I’d watch my step if I were you, my friend.” 

Shaw strode off, heading around behind the stage. She hoped Fusco was in the narrow cubicle that served as a dressing room. Just then, she needed a pal. 

Shaw found him, huddled under a blanket and sneezing into a tattered tissue. 

“Got a fucking cold.” Fusco glared out of red, swollen eyes and blew like a bullhorn. “Stay away from me.” 

Warily, Shaw kept her distance. “Are you taking anything?” 

"I’m taking everything." He gestured to a tabletop littered with over-the-counter drugs. “It’s a fucking pharmaceutical conspiracy, Shaw. We’ve wiped out just about every known plague, disease, and infection. Oh, we come up with a new one every now and again, to give the researchers something to do. But none of these bright-eyed medical types, none of the super advanced medisystems can figure out how to cure the common fucking cold. You know why?” 

Shaw couldn’t stop the smile. She waited patiently until Fusco finished another bout of explosive sneezing. “Why?” 

“Because the pharmaceutical companies need to sell drugs. You know what just one damn sinus infuser costs? You can get anticancer treatments cheaper. I swear it.” 

“You can go to the doctor, get the shit to eradicate the symptoms.” 

“I got that, too. Damn stuff’s only good for eight hours, and I’ve got a performance tonight. I have to wait until seven o’clock to take it.” 

“You should be home in bed.” 

“They’re exterminating the building. Some wise guy said they saw a cockroach.” He sneezed again, then peered owlishly at Shaw. “What are you doing here?” 

“I had some business. Look, get some rest. I’ll see you later.” 

“Nah, stick around. I’m boring myself.” He reached for a bottle of some nasty-looking pink liquid and glugged it down. “Hey, nice shirt. You get a bonus or something?” 

“Or something.” 

“So, sit down. I was going to call you, but I’ve been too busy hacking up my lungs. What’s the news? You don’t hang around like this unless you got something to say.” 

“I ran into Root last night. We, uh, had some business.” 

“Oh yeah, what’s the story? You helping her with some security or something?” 

“I slept with her,” Shaw blurted out, and Fusco responded with a fit of helpless choking. 

“You... Root.” Eyes watering, he reached for more tissue. “Jesus, Shaw. Jesus Christ, you never _sleep_ with anybody. And you’re telling me you slept with _Root_?” 

“That’s not completely accurate. We didn’t sleep.” 

Fusco’s mouth fell open. “You didn’t sleep. For how long?” 

Shaw jerked a shoulder. “I don’t know. I stayed the night. Nine, ten hours, I guess.” 

“ _Hours._ Jesus.” Fusco shuddered. “And you just kept going.” 

“Pretty much.” 

“Is she good? Stupid question,” he interrupted himself. “You wouldn’t have stayed otherwise. Jesus, Shaw, what got into you? Wait, wait, don’t tell me about any body parts. Or anything like any body parts.” 

“I don’t know. It was stupid.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s never been like that for me before. It’s always been just bodies, fuck and get out. But somehow she, she—shit.” 

“Hey, short stack. It can’t be that bad.” Fusco had never seen Shaw display any emotion over a fucktoy before. Other than lust when picking them up at the clubs. And irritation when trying to ditch them. He snaked a hand from under his blanket and patted Shaw’s rigid arm as she frowned at the floor.

“Yeah, I know, it’s nearly impossible for you to let down your guard. All that past shit you barely remember. But you’ve done it a couple of times, without the sex.” He gave her a sweet smile, despite his swollen, red features. “So someone else just found a way to get through. With the sex. You should be happy.” 

“But it’s a weakness—puts her in the driver’s seat.” 

“Bullshit.” Fusco interrupted before Shaw could go on. “As if anyone could drive you around if you didn’t want it.” 

Shaw twitched her lips a little at Fusco’s flat statement. 

“Think about it,” he went on. “It feels like something different for you—you think it doesn't feel like something different for her?” 

A couple of seconds went by, then Shaw slowly shook her head. "No." 

“Seems like you're even there. That's something. Also, sex doesn’t have to be about owning someone, even when it’s more than a fuck. It doesn’t have to be about winning the game, getting control.” Fusco scoffed at her expression. “Yeah, yeah, I know you’re a kinky fucker, whatever. But I know it’s supposed to be fun. That you should both enjoy each other. And now and again, if you’re lucky, sex gets to be special.” 

“Maybe.” She closed her eyes. “Fuck, Lionel, my career’s on the line.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Root’s involved in a case I’m working on.” 

“Oh shit.” He had to break off and blow his nose again. “You’re not going to have to bust her for something, are you?” 

“No.” Then more emphatically. “No. But if I don’t tie it all up fast, with a nice, pretty bow, I’ll be out. I’ll be finished. Somebody’s using me, Fusco.” Her eyes sharpened again. “They’re clearing the path in one direction, tossing roadblocks in the other. I don’t know why. If I don’t find out, it’s going to cost me everything I have.” 

“Then you’re going to have to find out, aren’t you?” Fusco gave Shaw’s shoulder a firm pat. 

* * *

She _would_ find out, Shaw promised herself. It was after ten p.m. when she let herself into the lobby of her building. But if she didn’t want to think about it just then, that wasn’t a crime. On top of everything else, she’d had to swallow a formal reprimand from the chief’s office for veering from the official statement during the press conference. She had expected it, but even Elias’s unofficial support didn’t quite ease the sting. 

Once she was inside her apartment, she checked her personal messages. As she did so, it dawned on her that she was kind of hoping Root had left one. She shook her head at herself. _What a dumbass._

There wasn’t a message from Root. But what she found instead had the hair on the back of her neck rising. 

The vid was unnamed and had been sent from a public access. Shaw recognized the angles of the official department record, the one taken to document the homicide location and justified termination. It depicted the crime scene in faithful detail. The little girl. Her dead father. The blood everywhere. 

Then an audio track began to play back: the auto-record of her arrival on scene. The child’s screaming. Shaw beating on the door. Her warning shout, and then all the horror that followed. 

“You motherfucker,” she said aloud, in a near-whisper. “You’re not going to get to me with this. You’re not going to use that baby to get to me.” 

But her fingers shook just a little as she halted the clip. Shaw's hand leaped to her weapon as the intercom suddenly buzzed. 

“Who is it?” 

“Hennessy from apartment 2-D.” Shaw relaxed slightly as the pale, earnest face of her downstairs neighbor appeared on screen. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant Shaw. I didn’t know what to do exactly. We’ve got trouble down here in the Finestein apartment.” 

Shaw sighed and recalled her mental file on the elderly couple. Quiet, friendly, devoted to their vid-watching. “What’s the problem?” 

“Mr. Finestein’s dead, lieutenant. Keeled over in the kitchen while his wife was out playing mah-jongg with friends. I thought maybe you could come down.” 

“Yeah.” She sighed again. “I’ll be there. Don’t touch anything, Mr. Hennessy, and try to keep people out of the way.” He nodded, and the intercom went blank. She then made the routine call to Dispatch to report an unattended death and her attendance on the scene. 

* * *

The apartment was calm and quiet as Shaw entered. Mrs. Finestein was sitting on her living room sofa with her tiny white hands folded in her lap. Her hair was white as well, like feathery down around a face that was beginning to line despite antiaging creams and treatments. 

The old woman smiled gently at Shaw. “I’m so sorry to trouble you, dear.” 

“It’s okay. Are you alright?” 

“Yes, I’m fine.” Her soft blue eyes stayed on Shaw’s. “It was our weekly game, the girls and mine. When I got home, I found him in the kitchen. He’d been eating a custard pie. Joe was overly fond of sweets.” 

She looked over at Hennessy, who stood, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I didn’t know quite what to do, so I went knocking on Mr. Hennessy’s door.” 

“That’s fine. If you’d remain with her for a minute, please,” Shaw said to Hennessy. She moved off toward the kitchen. 

The apartment was set up similarly to her own. It was meticulously neat, despite the abundance of knickknacks and memorabilia.

At the kitchen table with its centerpiece of china flowers, Joe Finestein had lost his life, and considerable dignity. His upper body was slumped over the table, his head turned to one side and half in and half out of a fluffy custard pie. Nothing else in the kitchen appeared to be disturbed. 

Shaw checked for a pulse and found none. His skin had cooled considerably. At a guess, she put his death at 1900 hours, give or take a couple. “Joseph Finestein,” she recited out loud for the record. “Male, approximately one hundred and fifteen years of age. No signs of forced entry, no signs of violence. There are no marks on the body.” 

She leaned closer, looked into Joe’s surprised and staring eyes, and sniffed the pie. After finishing her prelim notes, she went back to the living area to relieve Hennessy and begin her interview of the deceased’s widow. 

* * *

It was midnight before she was able to crawl into bed, utterly exhausted. Oblivion was what she wanted, what she prayed for. No dreams, she ordered her subconscious. Take the night off. Even as she closed her eyes, her link blipped. 

“Fry in hell, whoever you are,” she muttered, then dutifully wrapped the sheet around her naked shoulders and picked up the link. 

“Lieutenant.” Root’s image smiled at her. “Did I wake you?” 

“You would have in another five minutes.” She shifted as the audio hissed with a bit of space interference. “I guess you got where you were going all right.” 

“I did. There was only a slight delay in transport. I thought I might catch you before you turned in.” 

“Any particular reason?” 

“Because I like looking at you.” Root’s smile faded as she looked at her. “What’s wrong, Shaw?” 

_Where do you want me to start?_ She shrugged. “Long day—ending with one of your other tenants here croaking in his evening snack. He went facedown in a custard pie.” 

“There are worse ways to go, I suppose.” Root turned her head and murmured to someone nearby. Shaw saw a woman’s figure move briskly behind Root and out of view. “I’ve just dismissed Martine,” she explained, one side of her mouth curving into a friendly leer. “I wanted to be alone when I asked if you’re wearing anything under that sheet.” 

Shaw lifted the sheet a little, glanced down, and pursed her lips. “Doesn’t look like it.” 

“Why don’t you take it off?” 

“No way I’m going to satisfy your prurient urges by interspace transmission, Root. Use your imagination.” 

“I am. I’m imagining what I’m going to do to you the next time I get my hands on you. Or vice versa, I’m really not picky. I advise you to rest up, lieutenant.” 

She wanted to smile and couldn’t. “Root, we’re going to have to talk when you get back.” 

“We can do that too. I’ve always found our chats stimulating, Sameen. Get some sleep.” 

“Yeah, I will. See you, Root.” 

“Think of me, sweetie.” 

Root ended the transmission, then sat alone, staring moodily at the blank screen. There’d been something in Shaw’s face. Root knew at least some of its more subtle expressions now, could see beyond the training and control into the subdued emotion down deep. 

That something had been _worry_. 

Turning her chair, Root looked out into the void of star-spattered space beyond the station. She was too far away to do anything other than brood. 

And to ask herself, once again, why Sameen mattered so much. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw solves one murder, but not the one she wants to. But she makes a new pal.
> 
> A couple of interesting pieces of evidence come to light - Shaw is desperate to use one but not the other.
> 
> She and Root have a brief chat, but it's not a happy one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 100% about procedural police work and Shaw just has to slog through it. Some good results, but clouds are gathering on the horizon.
> 
> As always, thanks to @[SloanGreyMercyDeath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SloanGreyMercyDeath) for a sprinkling of fairy dust and guidance around some subtle grammatical nuances in US English!

Shaw studied the report of the bank search for Claire Hallen’s deposit box with frustration. `No record.` `No record.` `No record.`

Nothing in New York, New Jersey, Connecticut. Nothing in East Washington or Virginia. Claire _had_ rented one somewhere. She’d kept her diaries tucked away somewhere she could get to them safely and quickly. Shaw was certain of it. As certain as she was that those diaries could reveal a motive for murder. 

Unwilling to tag Finch for another, broader search, she began one herself, starting with Pennsylvania, working west and north toward the borders of Canada and Quebec. In slightly less than twice the time it would have taken Finch, she came up blank again. 

Then, working south, she struck out with Maryland, and down to Florida. Her machine began to slow down as it worked and a slight but ominous buzzing sound emanated from its innards. Shaw issued a warning growl and a sharp bump to the console. She swore she’d risk the morass of requisition for a new unit if this one just held out for one more case. 

More from stubbornness than hope, she did a scan of the Midwest, heading toward the Rockies. Negative reports continued to mount up. But her mind kept working at it, much more efficiently than her crappy desk link. 

What would Claire have done? She was smart, too smart for her own good. She wouldn’t have gone out of the country or off-planet where there were customs scans at every checkpoint. Even if that wasn’t a concern, she wouldn’t bother with a place that required long-range transport or travel docs. She’d want speedy access if something came up. 

Claire's mother knew about the diaries; maybe others did, too. Root hadn’t known about them, but Root wasn’t the threat. Shaw was utterly certain of that, too. Maybe Claire had bragged about them, threatened someone with the secrets they contained, while feeling secure they were safely tucked away. But they would be close, dammit. Close enough that she could feel the power locked inside, use it, toy with those she wanted to bully. 

But not somewhere obvious enough that anyone could track down the diaries’ location, gain access, spoil her game. She must have used an alias—Finch would have found something otherwise. If Claire was smart enough to use an alias, she’d have used one that was basic, familiar. Not one that would be easy to forget. 

Shaw smacked her forehead with her palm. _So simple._ She keyed it in: `Claire Wyler`.

Yeah, so simple that both she and Finch had overlooked it. Claire’s mother had never taken her husband’s name, but the constant reminder of the _Hallen_ name with the senator throwing his weight around had obscured even the most simple things. Shaw mentally kicked her ass some more as she set the search off again. 

She desisted from the self-ass-kicking after hitting paydirt within seconds at the Brinkstone International Bank and Finance, Newark, New Jersey. ‘Claire Wyler’ not only had a safe-deposit box, she had a brokerage account in the amount of $326,000.85. 

Highly satisfied, she told her link to connect the PA’s office. “I need a warrant,” she announced. 

* * *

Three hours later, she was back in Commander Elias’s office, trying not to grind her teeth. “She’s got another one somewhere,” Shaw insisted. “And the diaries are in it.” 

“Nobody’s stopping you from looking, Shaw,” he said mildly. 

“Fine, that’s fine.” She stomped around his office as she spoke. The energy was pumping now and she needed action. “So, what are we going to do about this?” 

She jerked a hand at the file on his desk. “You’ve got the storage cube I took from the safe-deposit box and the printout I ran. It’s right there, commander. A blackmail list: names and amounts. And Simmons’s name is there, in tidy alphabetical order.” 

“I can read, Shaw.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “The chief isn’t the only person named Simmons in the city, much less the country.” 

“It’s him.” She was fuming and there was no place to put the steam. “We both know it. There are a number of other interesting names there, too. A governor, a Catholic bishop, a respected leader of the International Organization of Women, two high-ranking cops, an ex-Vice President—” 

“I’m aware of the names,” Elias interrupted. “Are you aware of your position, Shaw, and the potential consequences here?” He held up a hand to silence her. “A few neat columns of names and numbers don’t mean squat. There’s nothing to directly tie that name with the chief. For chrissakes, we know there’s a leak—the goddamned killer sent your Code Five reports to a reporter. This data, unverified, gets out of this office, and it’s over. _You’re_ over and so is this investigation. Is that what you want?” 

“No, sir.” Shaw forced herself to stand motionless as he spoke. 

“Then start thinking harder. You get the diaries, Shaw, find the connection between Claire Hallen and Lola Starr, and we will take it from there. As far as it needs to go. I promise you.” 

“Simmons is dirty.” She took two steps toward Elias’s desk and glared at him. “He knew Claire Hallen—he was being blackmailed. I know for a fact he’s doing everything he can to undermine the investigation.” 

“We also know for a fact what he will do to your career if any link between him and the vic is not proven to be rock solid when it all comes out.” Elias held up his hand again firmly as Shaw started to speak and gave her a quelling look. “So we have to work around him.” 

He put the file in his lockbox and touched the bioscanner to secure it. " _No one_ knows what we have in here, Shaw. Not even Finch. Is that clear? 

“Yes, sir.” Knowing she had to be satisfied with that, she started for the door. She paused as she reached it and turned back. “Commander, I’d like to point out that there’s a name absent from that list. Root’s.” 

Elias met her eyes, nodded. “As I said, Shaw. I can read.” 

* * *

The message alert was blinking on her desk link when she got back to her office. She checked her messages to find two calls from the medical examiner. Impatiently, Shaw put her hot lead aside and returned the call. 

“Finished running the tests on your neighbor, Shaw. You hit the bull’s-eye.” 

“Oh, hell.” She pressed two fingers between her brows. “Send through the results. I’ll take it from here.” 

* * *

Hetta Finestein opened her door with a puff of lavender sachet and the yeasty smell of homemade bread. 

“Lieutenant Shaw.” 

She smiled her quiet smile and stepped back in invitation. Inside, the viewing screen was tuned to a chatty talk show where the home audience could link in and shoot their holographic images to the studio for fuller interaction. The topic seemed to be higher state salaries for professional mothers. Just now the screen was crowded with women and children of varying sizes and vocal opinions. 

“How nice of you to come by. I’ve had so many visitors today. It’s a comfort. Would you like some cookies?” 

“Sure,” Shaw agreed, suppressing her internal discomfort. “Thanks.” She sat on the couch, let her eyes scan the tidy little apartment. “You and Mr. Finestein used to run a bakery?” 

“Oh, yes.” Hetta’s voice carried from the kitchen, along with her bustling movements. “Until just a few years ago. We did very well. People love real cooking, you know. And if I do say so myself, I have quite a hand with pies and cakes.” 

“You do a lot of baking here, at home.” 

Hetta came in with a tray of golden cookies. “One of my pleasures. Too many people never know the joy of a home-baked cookie. So many children never experience real sugar. It’s hideously expensive, of course, but worth it.” 

Shaw sampled a cookie and had to agree. “I guess you must have baked the pie your husband was eating when he died.” 

“You won’t find store-bought or simulations in my house,” Hetta said proudly. “Of course, Joe would gobble everything up almost as soon as I took it out of the oven. There’s not an AutoChef on the market as reliable as a good baker’s instincts and creativity.” 

“So, you did in fact bake the pie, Mrs. Finestein.” Shaw’s tone was firm. 

The woman blinked, lowered her lashes. “Yes, I did.” 

“Mrs. Finestein, do you know what killed your husband?” 

“Yes, I do,” she said softly. “Gluttony. I told him not to eat it. I specifically told him not to eat it. I said it was for the Hennessys across the hall.” 

“The Hennessys.” That took Shaw back several mental paces. “You—” 

“Of course, I knew he’d eat it, anyway. He was very selfish that way.” 

Shaw blinked. “Could we, uh, turn the show off?” 

“Hmm? Oh, I’m sorry.” Mrs. Finestein, flustered, tapped her cheeks with her hands. “That’s so rude. I’m so used to letting it play all day I don’t even notice it. Um, program—no, screen off.” 

“And the audio,” Shaw said patiently. 

“Of course.” She looked sheepish. “I sometimes forget, even though it’s been many years since we switched from remote to voice. Sound off, please. There, that’s better, isn’t it.” 

Shaw’s incipient headache retreated in the blessed silence that spread over the room once the loud gabble was shut off. The woman could bake a poisoned pie, but couldn’t control her own television, she thought. _It takes all kinds_. 

“Mrs. Finestein, I don’t want you to say any more until I’ve read you your rights. Until you’re sure you understand them. You’re under no obligation to make any statement,” Shaw began, while Hetta continued to smile gently. 

Hetta waited until the recitation was over. “I didn’t expect to get away with it. Not really.” 

“Get away with what, Mrs. Finestein?” 

“Poisoning Joe. Although…” She pursed her lips, thinking. “My grandson’s a lawyer—a very clever boy. I think he’d say that since I did tell Joe, very specifically told him not to eat that pie, it was more Joe’s doing than mine. In any case,” she said and waited patiently. 

“Mrs. Finestein, are you telling me that you added synthetic cyanide compound to a custard pie with the intention of killing your husband?” 

“No, dear. I’m telling you I added cyanide compound, with a nice dose of extra sugar to a pie, and told my husband not to touch it. ‘Joe,’ I said, ‘Don’t you so much as sniff this custard pie. I baked it special and it’s not for you. You hear me, Joe?’” 

Hetta smiled again. “He said he heard me all right, and then just before I left for my evening with the girls, I told him again, just to be sure. ‘I mean it, Joe. You let that pie be.’ I expected he would eat it, though, but that was up to him, wasn’t it? Let me tell you about Joe,” she continued conversationally, and picked up the cookie tray to urge another on Shaw. When Shaw hesitated a microsecond, she laughed gaily. “Oh, dear, these are quite safe, I promise you. I just gave a dozen to the nice little boy upstairs.” 

To prove her point, she chose one herself and bit in. 

“Now, where was I? Oh, yes, about Joe. He’s my second husband, you know. We’ve been married fifty years come April. Some men should never retire. The last few years, he’s been very hard to live with. Cross and complaining all the time, forever finding fault. He couldn’t pass by anything I made without gobbling it down. But he never baked any of his own.” 

Because it sounded almost reasonable, Shaw waited a moment. “Mrs. Feinstein, you poisoned him because he was too greedy?” 

“It does seem that way. But it goes deeper. You’re so young, dear, and you don’t have family, do you?” 

“No.” 

“Families can be a comfort but also an irritation. Joe wasn’t an easy man to live with, and I’m afraid that he had developed bad habits. He just loved upsetting me, ruining my small pleasures. Why, just last month he deliberately ate half the Tower of Pleasure Cake I’d baked for the International Betty Crocker cook-off. Then he told me it was dry.” Her voice huffed out in obvious insult. “Can you imagine?” 

“No,” Shaw said. “I really can’t.” 

“Well, he did it just to make me mad. It was the way he wielded power, you see. So I baked the pie, told him not to touch it, and went out to play mah-jongg with the girls. I wasn’t at all surprised when I got back and found he hadn’t listened. He was a glutton, you see.” She gestured with the cookie before delicately finishing the last bite. “That’s one of the seven deadly sins, gluttony. It just seemed right that he would die by sin. Are you sure you won’t have another cookie?” 

* * *

The world was certainly an insane place, Shaw decided, when old women poisoned custard pies. And with her quiet, old-fashioned, grandmotherly demeanor, the woman would probably get off. If they sent her up, she’d get kitchen duty and happily bake pastries for the other inmates. 

Shaw filed her report, caught a quick dinner in the eatery, then went back to work on the still simmering lead. She’d no more than cleared half the New York banks when the call came through to her desk and she answered. “Yeah, Shaw.” 

The response was an image that appeared on her screen. A dead woman, arranged all too familiarly on blood-soaked sheets. 

> THREE OF SIX

She stared at the message imposed over the body and snarled at her computer. “Trace address. Now, goddammit.” After the computer obliged, she tagged Dispatch. 

“Shaw, Lieutenant Sameen, ID 6741-4AF. Priority A. Any available units to 156 West 89th, apartment 2119. Do not enter premises. Repeat, do not enter premises. Detain any and all persons exiting building. Nobody goes in that apartment, uniform or civilian. My ETA, ten minutes.” 

“Copy, Shaw, Lieutenant Sameen.” The droid on duty spoke dispassionately. “Units 5-0 and 3-6 available to respond. Will await your arrival. Priority A. Dispatch, out.” 

She grabbed her bag and her field kit and was gone. 

* * *

Shaw entered the apartment alone, weapon out and ready. The living room was tidy, even homey, with its thick cushions and fringed area rugs. There was a book on the sofa and a slight dip in the cushion, indicating someone had spent some time curled up there reading. She cleared the area and moved to a door beyond. 

The small room was set up as an office, the workstation tidy as a pin, with little hints of personality in the basket of perfumed silk flowers, the bowl of colorful gumdrops, the shiny white mug decorated with a glossy red heart. 

Shaw entered the bedroom and immediately saw the body displayed on the bed. A sudden yelp of sound had her shifting into a firing stance as she spun around. It came from a door on the other side of the room. As she approached, she could hear a scratching sound and heavy breathing coming from behind it. 

“NYPSD!” she barked out. “I am armed. Come out with your hands on your head, now!” 

Another yelping sound came from behind the door in response. This time, Shaw realised it was an actual _yelp_. She rolled her eyes at herself. “A dog,” she complained out loud. “Why is there a goddamned dog in the bathroom?” 

With her weapon held to one side of her chest in one hand, she cautiously opened the door with the other, blocking the entrance with her body. A medium-large brown dog with a black muzzle and large, alert ears nearly made a break for it past her. She managed to trap him against the wall with her thigh and grab his collar. She sheathed her weapon after clearing the bathroom visually and bent to give the dog a calming stroke on his shoulders. 

He was looking fixedly at the sad figure on the bed and a quiet whine escaped his muzzle as his nostrils flared, evidently taking in the smell of blood and death. Shaw let him look for a minute, holding his collar, but he made no attempt to break her grip. She gently turned him back into the bathroom and he went with her, reluctantly but obediently. She noted the scratch marks on the back of the bathroom door, gouging deep into the colorful surface. He must have been frantically trying to get out before her arrival. 

“I’m sorry, pal,” she said quietly. “You have to stay here for a little longer while I take care of your owner. But we’ll find someone to take care of you, too.” 

She gave him another ruffle on his neck as he simply looked at her. He sighed heavily—Shaw didn’t know that dogs could sigh like humans—and retreated to a corner where a comfortable-looking dog bed and blanket lay on the floor. He lay down and sighed again, fixing his eyes on the bathroom entrance, as if waiting for his owner to come in and take him for a walk. 

Shaw also sighed, heavy-hearted, and left the bathroom, closing the door gently behind her. 

She turned her attention to the body on the bed. She knew what to expect now with the violent havoc bullets wrought on a body. The blood was still very fresh. Through the thin protective spray on her hands, she touched the body. It hadn’t had time to cool. The victim had been positioned on the bed and the weapon had been placed neatly between her legs. 

Shaw pegged it as a Ruger P-90, a sleek combat weapon popular as home defense during the Urban Revolt. Light, compact, and fully automatic. No silencer this time. But she was willing to bet the bedroom was soundproofed—and that the killer had known it. 

She moved over to the fussily femme circular dresser and opened a small burlap bag on it that was currently a fashion rage. Inside, she found the dead woman’s companion’s license. Pretty woman, she thought. Nice smile, direct eyes, stunning coffee-and-cream complexion. 

“Georgie Castle,” Shaw recited for the record. “Female. Age fifty-three. Licensed companion. Death probably occurred between seven and seven-forty-five p.m., cause of death gunshot wounds. ME to confirm. Three visible points of violence: forehead, mid-chest, genitalia. Most likely inflicted by antique combat-style handgun left at scene. No signs of struggle, no appearance of forced entry or robbery.” 

She took out her link and called for the homicide team. 

* * *

A short time later, Shaw was in the kitchen, watching the dog sniff dubiously at a bowl of food she’d unearthed, when she heard the raised voices outside the apartment door. When she went to investigate, she found the uniform she’d posted trying to restrain a frantic and very determined woman. 

“What’s the problem here, officer?” 

“Lieutenant.” With obvious relief, the uniform deferred to her superior. “The civilian demands entry. I was—” 

“Of course I demand entry.” The woman’s dark red hair, cut in a perfect wedge, moved and settled around her face with each jerky movement. “This is my parent’s home. I want to know what you’re doing here.” 

“And your parent is?” Shaw prompted. 

“Ms. Castle. Ms. Georgie Castle. Was there a break-in?” Anger turned to worry as she tried to squeeze past Shaw. “Is she all right? Georgie?” 

“Come with me.” Shaw took a firm hold of her arm and steered her inside and into the kitchen. She girded herself for the requisite expression of empathy she would need for this interview. “What’s your name?” 

“Samantha Bennett.” 

The dog left his bowl and trotted to Samantha, giving a subdued wag of his tail. In a gesture Shaw recognized as habitual and automatic, Samantha bent to give the dog a quick scratch behind his ears. 

“Hey, Bear,” she said to him and looked back at Shaw. “Where is she?” Now that the worry was heading toward fear, Samantha’s voice cracked. 

There was no part of the job Shaw dreaded more than this, no aspect of police work that was so difficult to deal with. It was best to just say it fast. 

"I’m sorry, Ms. Bennett. I’m very sorry. Georgie Castle is dead.” 

Samantha said nothing. Her eyes, the same warm honey tone as her parent’s, unfocused. Before she could fold, Shaw eased her into a chair. Bear the dog looked at Samantha’s agitated face and sat by her feet. 

“There’s a mistake,” she managed. “There has to be a mistake. We’re going to the movies. The nine o’clock show. We always go to the movies on Tuesdays.” She stared up at Shaw with desperately hopeful eyes. “She can’t be dead. She’s barely fifty, and she’s healthy. She’s strong.” 

“There’s no mistake. I’m sorry.” 

“There was an accident?” Her eyes filled with tears. “She had an accident?” 

“It wasn’t an accident.” There was no way but one to get it done. “She was murdered.” 

“No, that’s impossible.” The tears flowed over. Her voice hitched over them as she continued to shake her head in denial. “Everyone liked her, everyone. No one would hurt her. I want to see her. I want to see her now.” 

“I can’t let you do that.” 

“I’m her daughter.” Tears dropped into her lap even as her voice rose. “I have the right. I want to see her.” 

Shaw clamped both hands on Samantha’s shoulders, forcing her back into the chair she’d risen from. “You’re not going to see her. It wouldn’t help her. It wouldn’t help you. What you’re going to do is answer my questions, and that’s going to help me find who did this to her. Now, do you want me to get you something? Call anyone for you?” 

“No. No.” Samantha fumbled in her purse for a tissue. “My husband, my children. I’ll have to tell them. My mother. How can I tell them?” 

“Where is your mother, Samantha?” 

“She lives—she lives in Westchester. They divorced about two years ago. She kept the house because Georgie wanted to move into the city. She wanted to write books. She wanted to be a writer.” 

Shaw turned to the filtered water unit on the counter, poured out a glass, and pressed it on Samantha. “Do you know how Georgie made her living?” 

“Yes.” Samantha pressed her lips together, crushed the damp tissue in her chilled fingers. “No one could talk her out of it. She was my dad. She hadn’t been comfortable with her assigned gender for years and she finally transitioned a few years back. She and mom got divorced. Georgie insisted. ‘Your mother’s straight. It’s no fun for her,’ she said.” Samantha shook her head. 

“Other than that, it was fine, she was happy to finally be herself. But then she moved to the city to become a sex worker. She used to laugh and say it was time she did something even more outrageous and what wonderful research it was for her books. Georgie—” Samantha broke off to drink some water. “She got married very young. A few years ago, she said she needed to fully live her life, see what that would be like. Then the move to the city. She got Bear, said that he would look after her. We couldn’t talk her out of moving away from home. You could never talk her out of anything.” 

She began to weep again, covering her face and sobbing silently. Shaw took the barely-touched glass and waited, letting the first wave of grief and shock pass through. “Was it a difficult divorce? Was your mother angry?” 

“Baffled. Confused. Sad. She wanted her back and always said that she still loved Georgie—” The question behind the question abruptly struck her. She lowered her hands. “Mom would never hurt her. Never, ever. She loved her, everyone did. You couldn’t help it.” 

“Okay.” Shaw would deal with that later. “You and Georgie were close?” 

“Yes, very close.” 

“Did she ever talk to you about her clients?” 

“Sometimes. It embarrassed me, but she’d find a way to make it all so outrageously funny. She could do that. Called herself Granny Sex, and you had to laugh.” 

“Did she ever mention anyone who made her uneasy?” 

“No. She could handle people. It was part of her charm. She was only going to do this until she was published.” 

“Did she ever mention the names Claire Hallen or Lola Starr?” 

“No.” Samantha started to drag her hair back, then her hand froze in midair. “Starr, Lola Starr. I heard—on the news—I heard about her. She was murdered. Oh God. Oh God.” She lowered her head and her hair fell in wings to shield her face. 

“I’m going to have an officer take you home, Samantha.” 

“I can’t leave. I can’t leave her.” 

“Yes, you can. I’m going to take care of her.” Shaw laid her hands over Samantha’s. “I promise you, I’ll take care of her for you. Come on now.” Gently, she helped Samantha to her feet. She wrapped an arm around the distraught woman’s waist as she led her to the door. She wanted her out before the team had finished in the bedroom. “Is your husband home?” 

“Yes. He’s home with the children. We have two children. Two years, and six months. Tony’s home with the children.” 

“Good. What’s your address?” 

The shock was settling in. Shaw hoped the numbness she could read on Samantha’s face would help as the woman recited an upscale address in Westchester. 

“Officer Banks.” 

“Yes, lieutenant.” 

“Take Ms. Bennett home. I’ll call for another officer for the door. Stay with the family as long as you’re needed.” 

“Yes, sir.” With compassion, Banks guided Samantha toward the elevators. “This way, Ms. Bennett,” she murmured. 

Samantha leaned unsteadily on Banks and looked back at Shaw. “You’ll take care of her?” 

She met Samantha’s ravaged eyes steadily. “I promise.” 

She closed the apartment door and walked back to the kitchen where the dog, Bear, lay patiently on the floor next to the table. He hadn’t moved when Samantha left, as if accepting she was too overwhelmed to think of anything but her grief right now. 

The dog raised his head when Shaw entered the room, his ears coming alert. She looked down at him soberly. “I promise you too,” she said. 

* * *

An hour later, Shaw walked into the station house with the dog on its lead. 

“You starting a K-9 unit, lieutenant?” The desk sergeant snorted at his own humor. 

“You’re a laugh riot, Riley. Commander still here?” 

“He’s waiting for you. You’re to go up as soon as you show.” He came forward to ruffle the dog’s neck. “Hooked yourself another homicide?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Looks like you hooked something else. Fine dog. It’s a Malinois, a Belgian Shepherd.” 

“The dog belonged to the vic,” said Shaw. “Is that so, the breed?” 

“Yeah. Like our shepherds, they’re used by security, cops and the military in Europe.” Bear was looking at them attentively as they spoke. “Looks like he’s pretty alert. Want to try something?” 

“Sure.” 

Riley beckoned for her to lean closer. “I don’t want to confuse him by giving him commands.” Shaw nodded. “Tell him ‘af’ and then ‘staan’, see what happens,” he murmured. 

Shaw looked down at Bear and he immediately focused on her. “Af!” she said firmly. 

He instantly lay down on the floor, to her delight. “Okay, that’s pretty great.” 

The dog looked up at her from under his eyebrows. “Fine, fine.” She paused a little and then said, “Staan.” 

Bear stood, giving her a look of extreme patience. 

“Wouldn’t you know that!” exclaimed Riley. “He’s been security-trained. That’s Dutch. Some people use Dutch commands so they’re not obvious. It’s not routine training.” 

“Huh,” said Shaw, interested. 

“You better get a Dutch translator on your link, lieutenant. Until you learn those commands.” 

“I’m just looking after him until we can take him to his new home. Vic’s daughter is a little distraught right now.” 

Riley nodded understandingly. 

“Thanks for the info,” she said. “Better get this show on the road. Can you tell Commander Elias I’m on my way?” 

Riley waved a salute as he returned to his desk and she turned to the elevator. 

Elias was waiting in his office with Finch and the report she’d sent directly from the crime scene. Cop work was all about repetition, so she went over the same ground verbally. 

“So that’s the dog,” Finch said as she finished her report. 

“I didn’t have the heart to dump him on the daughter in the state she was in.” Shaw shrugged. “And I couldn’t very well just leave him there.” With her free hand, she reached into her bag. “Storage cubes, electronics. Everything’s labeled. I scanned through her appointments. The last one of the day was at 1830. Chris Smith. The weapon.” She laid the bagged weapon on Commander Elias’s desk. “Looks like a Ruger P-90.” 

Finch took a look at it and nodded. “You’re learning, Shaw.” 

“I’ve been boning up.” 

“Early twenty-first, probably '08, '09.” Finch stated as he turned the sealed weapon in his hands. “Very good condition. Serial number’s intact. Won’t take long to run it,” he added, but lifted a shoulder. “But the killer hasn’t used a registered weapon so far.” 

“Run it,” Elias ordered and gestured to the link across the room. Finch went over to it and started the search. “I’ve got surveillance on your building, Shaw. If the killer tries to slip you another cube, we’ll spot them.” 

"If the perp stays true to form, it’ll be within twenty-four hours. Pattern’s holding so far, though each of the victims has been a distinctly different type. With Hallen, you’ve got the glitz, the sophistication. With Starr, you’ve got fresh, childlike. And with this one, we’ve got comfort, not elderly, but mature. Castle didn’t advertise the trans angle. 

“We’re still interviewing neighbors, and I’m going to hit the family again, look into the divorce. It looks to me like she took this so-called client on the spur of the moment. She had a standing date with her daughter for Tuesdays. I’d like Finch to run her link, see if the killer called her direct. We’re not going to be able to keep this from the media, commander. And they’re going to hit us hard.” 

“I’m already working on media control,” said Elias. 

“It may be hotter than we think.” Finch looked up from the screen. His eyes remained on Shaw’s and her blood chilled. 

“The murder weapon is registered. Purchased through silent auction at Sotheby’s last fall. By Root.” 

Shaw didn’t speak for a moment. Didn’t care. “It breaks pattern,” she countered. “It’s bullshit. The other weapons were unregistered—why a registered one now? And it’s stupid. Root’s not a stupid person.” 

“Lieutenant—” 

“It’s a plant, commander. An obvious one. A silent auction. Any second-rate hacker can use someone’s ID and bid. How was it paid for?” she asked Finch curtly. 

“I’ll need to access Sotheby’s records after they open tomorrow.” 

“My bet’s anonymous EFT. It’s well below the laundering alert threshold. The auction house won’t care.” Her voice might have been calm, but her mind was racing. “And the delivery. Odds are electronic pick-up station. You don’t need ID for an EPS—all you do is enter the delivery code.” 

“Shaw.” Elias spoke patiently. “Pick her up for questioning.” 

“I can’t.” 

His eyes remained level, cool. “That’s a direct order. If you have a personal problem, save it for personal time.” 

“I can’t pick her up,” she said again. “She’s on the FreeStar space station, a considerable distance from the murder scene. And this planet.” 

“If she put out that she’d be on FreeStar—” 

“She didn’t,” Shaw interrupted, “and that’s where the killer made a mistake. Root’s trip is confidential, with only a few key people apprised. As far as it’s generally known, she’s right here in New York.” 

Commander Elias inclined his head. “Then we’d better check her whereabouts. Now.” 

Her stomach felt like a lump of stone as she engaged Elias’s link. There was no way to do this privately. Hersh’s deep voice answered the call. “Hersh, it’s Lieutenant Shaw. I need to contact Root.” 

“Root is in meetings, lieutenant. She can’t be disturbed.” 

“She told you to put me through, goddammit. It’s police business. Give me her contact details or I’m coming over there and hauling in your giant ass for obstructing justice.” 

Hersh’s face became more slablike. “I am not authorized to give out that data. I will, however, transfer you. Please stand by.” 

Shaw maintained a stoic expression as the screen went to holding blue. She wondered whose idea it was to pipe in the sugary music. Certainly not Root’s. She had too much class. What the hell was she going to do if Root wasn’t where she said she would be? 

The blue screen contracted into a pinpoint, then opened up. There was Root, a hint of impatience in the slant of her mouth, but her eyes were warm. 

“Lieutenant. Not a great time. Can I get back to you?” 

“No.” She could see from the corner of her eye that Finch was already tracing the transmission. “I need to verify your whereabouts.” 

“My whereabouts?” Root’s brows lifted, a slight crease forming above them. She must have seen something in her face, though Shaw would have sworn she kept it as smooth and unreadable as stone. “What’s wrong, Shaw?” 

She shook her head slightly. “Your whereabouts, Root. Please verify.” 

The animation in Root’s face disappeared and she remained silent, studying her. Shaw heard someone at the other end speak in a questioning tone. Root flicked away the interruption with a dismissive gesture. “I’m in the middle of a meeting in the executive chamber of Station FreeStar, the location of which is Quadrant Six, Slip Alpha. 360 scan,” she ordered, and the camera drone silently circled the room. 

A dozen people sat at a wide, circular table. The long, bowed port showed a scatter of stars and the perfect blue-green globe of Earth just beginning to set. 

“Location of transmission confirmed,” Finch said in an undertone. “She’s exactly where she says she is.” 

“Root, please switch to privacy mode.” 

Without a flicker of expression, she touched her in-ears on. “Yes, lieutenant?” 

“A weapon registered to you was confiscated at a homicide. I must ask you to come in for questioning at the earliest possible opportunity. You’re free to bring your attorney. I am _advising_ you to bring your attorney,” she added, hoping Root understood the emphasis. “If you don’t comply within forty-eight hours, the Station Guard will escort you back on-planet. Do you understand your rights and obligations in this matter?” 

Root’s lips were tightly compressed, her large eyes completely neutral as she looked back at Shaw. “Absolutely. I will make the necessary arrangements right away. Good-bye, lieutenant.” 

The screen went blank. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw acquires some evidence with Carter and Finch's help, but has to deal with the suspect interview from hell. Root learns one or two things too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carter gives Shaw a fairly lengthy suspect profile at the beginning. In Real Life™, there are plenty of criticisms to be made about criminal profiling and the dangers of relying on them to build a case against a particular suspect. However, I left it in (with alterations) because it's germane to the story. Also, Carter is an actual psychologist, not a law enforcement officer trying to use psychological tools. 
> 
> This article gives a fairly balanced view of the issues: https://www.apa.org/monitor/julaug04/criminal
> 
> There is a brief but completely gratuitous smut scene between the third and fourth scene breaks, but I needed it, even if no-one else does.
> 
> As always, thanks to @[SloanGreyMercyDeath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SloanGreyMercyDeath) for magic fairy dust and clarifications. And adding the BEST fairy dust to Shaw's super bad pun! Made it funnier by 500%, no lie.

Shaw dragged herself to Dr. Carter’s office the following morning, feeling like complete crap. She’d woken several times during the few hours she was able to ‘sleep’, her mind refusing to put the worry away and rest. She greeted Carter and, at her invitation, took a seat, sitting bolt upright. There was no way in hell she could relax right now. 

“Have you had time to run a profile?” 

“You requested urgent status.” Carter had in fact been up most of the night, reading reports and using her training and her psych diagnostic systems to compose the profile. “I’d like more time to work on this, but I can give you a preliminary view.” 

“Okay.” Shaw leaned forward. “What’s our killer?” 

“There’s a better than 80% chance that the killer is a cis man. Traditionally, crimes of this nature are not committed within the same sex. Of above average intelligence, with sociopathic and voyeuristic tendencies. Bold, but not a risk taker, though they probably see themself as such. Mature, with enough restraint to get the job done with precision. Not given to emotional displays. But keen to display the results of their work.” 

Carter briefly tapped her fingers on the link in her lap, arranging her thoughts. “The crimes are well-planned. The sex with the victims is probably almost incidental, although the perp might see it as getting their money’s worth. Most of the pleasure and satisfaction comes from the selection, the preparation, and the execution.” 

“Why sex workers?” 

“Control. Sex is control. Death is control. The aim is to control people, situations. The first murder was probably impulse. Perhaps even an actual ‘crime of passion’, as misleading as that term is.” 

“Why do you think that?” 

"The killer seemed caught off guard by the violence, by their own capability of violence. They had a physical reaction—there was a jerk of movement, audible breaths, but they recovered quickly and acted systematically to deal with the crime scene, stage it, and remove potential evidence. The killer doesn’t want to be caught, but wants—needs—to be admired, feared. Therefore, the recordings. 

“The uncommon collectors’ weapons,” she continued in her light, husky voice, “are a pricey status symbol. Again, power and control. They’re left behind so the perp can show that their killings—and they themself—are unique, distinctive.” She briefly gave a broad smile. “I gotta say that the implied symbolism influences my impression of the perp’s gender a little. The gun seems like almost a fetish in itself. However, a more concrete supposition is that the killer enjoys the overt violence of guns and the impersonal aspect. The kill from a comfortable distance, the aloofness of it. Again, control. Specifying the number of total victims in the notes is intended to demonstrate organization, precision. Ambition.” 

“Would the six women have been designated as specific targets from the beginning?” 

“The only verified connections between the three victims are their profession and their gender,” Carter began. She saw Shaw’s acknowledging nod—she'd obviously reached the same conclusion, but wanted it confirmed. "It's my opinion that the individual women are incidental. The perp’s opinion of women is one of contempt. Of course a woman can feel that way about her own gender, but it’s extremely rare for that to bring about this kind of violence. Castle didn’t advertise as a woman who’s undergone gender conformation treatment, but I feel that if the killer knew, she would simply be lumped in with all the other inferior women. The perpetrator debases and humiliates them after death to show disgust and superiority. These killings are not perceived as crimes, but as a demonstration of power, a personal statement. 

“There are still plenty of people that consider sex work a contemptible trade, for any gender. I’d say this individual believes that women in the profession are even more low-level than women in general. To them, they are of no more worth than a tissue you sneeze into and therefore only worth disposing of as such.” 

“Is this series of murders 'work', doctor, or a mission?” 

“It doesn’t look like a mission. We’ve only seen bragging, not a manifesto. Only a perverted kind of personal ambition. It isn’t religion, not a moral statement, not a societal stance.” 

“No, the statement’s personal. The stance is control.” 

“I agree,” Carter said, pleased with the acute workings of Shaw’s mind. “It’s an interest, a new and fascinating hobby they’ve found they’re skilled at. Their continued success with these killings feeds the desire for more.” 

“Yeah, they’ll stop at six with this method,” Shaw muttered. “But then they’ll find another creative way to kill. There’s too much vanity for them to go back on their word, but they’re enjoying their ‘hobby’ too much to give it up.” 

Carter smiled. “It's like you've already read my report, lieutenant. I believe you’re coming to understand this killer very well.” 

Shaw nodded. “Yeah, piece by piece.” There was another question she had to ask, the one she had worried at throughout the difficult, sleepless night. “To make the game more difficult, for self-protection, would the killer hire someone, pay someone else to kill a chosen victim while they were thoroughly alibied?” 

“No.” Carter’s eyes softened with compassion as she watched Shaw’s face relax, obviously in relief. “In my firm opinion, the killer needs to be there. To watch, to record, to be in the experience. Vicarious satisfaction wouldn’t be enough. The perpetrator is certain you won't outsmart them and enjoys watching you sweat. I’m sure that their attention was focused on you the moment they learned you were primary. You are being watched—the perp knows you care about your job, these victims, and they believe that’s a weakness to exploit. To drive home that supposed ‘weakness’, the murders are presented to you directly—not at your place of work, but where you live.” 

Shaw grimaced. “I just got the vid for the last one. It was in my morning mail drop, posted from a midtown slot about an hour after the murder. We had my building under surveillance. Looks like they figured that out and tried another route.” 

“Someone who likes to push buttons.” Carter handed Shaw a hardcopy of the initial profile. “It’s about demonstrating intellectual superiority—as you said, vanity. A grandiose ego combined with arrogance.” She paused briefly. “One more thing I can say with certainty, lieutenant. The killer enjoys their work. They enjoy it very much.” 

Shaw nodded. “I appreciate you getting this for me so quickly.” 

“Shaw,” Carter said before she could rise. “There’s an addendum, about the weapon that was left at the last murder. The person who committed these crimes would not make so obvious a mistake as leaving a traceable weapon behind. The diagnostic rejected it at a probability of 93.4 percent.” 

“It was there,” Shaw said flatly. “I bagged it myself.” 

“That’s likely part of it too now. Your personal ‘touch’, you handling their ‘weapon’.” Carter let the professionalism slip a moment to smile at Shaw’s eyeroll of disgust. “But it's a decoy, for sure. The killer probably loved implicating someone else to further bog the system and twist the investigation process. It’s nearly certain that the individual selected as the gun purchase decoy was targeted at you specifically, lieutenant. To at least distract you. Perhaps even, since they seem to know of your personal involvement, to further taint your professional reputation by association with a suspect. I’ve included that in the profile.” 

Carter’s face was serious now. “One more thing, Sameen, not in the report. I’m concerned, very concerned, about the killer’s personal interest in you.” 

Shaw gave her a predatory smile. “I’m going to see to it that the killer is a hell of a lot more concerned with my interest in them. Thank you, doctor.” 

* * *

Shaw went directly to Elias’s office to deliver the profile hardcopy. With any luck at all, Finch would have verified her suspicions about the purchase and delivery of the murder weapon. If she was right, and she had to believe she was, that and the weight of Carter’s profile would clear Root. 

She already knew, by the way Root had looked at her—through her—during their last conversation, that her professional duty had likely destroyed whatever … _thing_ they had between them. Shaw just wanted to clear Root as soon as possible so she could focus on pursuing the real killer. 

She was only more sure of Root’s intentions when she entered the commander's office and found Root sitting there in front of Elias, in full rich-bitch mode. She was wearing a form-fitting charcoal dress and her hair was in a conservative chignon. Her makeup was immaculate, her eyes accentuated in shadowy tones, her lips a deep mahogany red. Her jewellery, a necklace and earrings, was tasteful, expensive, classy. 

Shaw couldn’t stop herself from glancing at Root’s hands, neatly arranged on the clutch she held in her lap. Her long fingers, tipped with their usual black nail polish, were the same as always, elegant, deceptively strong, familiar. She had to repress a shiver that came from nowhere as she moved her eyes away again. 

Root must have used hugely-expensive private transport to travel back from the satellite. It would have been impossible for her to have arrived so quickly through normal channels. She glanced up as Shaw crossed the room to give Commander Elias the hardcopy, inclined her head politely, and said absolutely nothing. 

Shaw cleared her throat. “Dr. Carter’s profile.” 

“Thank you, lieutenant.” Elias’ eyes shifted to Root’s. “Lieutenant Shaw will show you to an interview area. We appreciate your cooperation.” 

Root still said nothing as she rose. She only nodded courteously to Elias, waited for Shaw to go to the door, and followed her down the corridor when they exited Elias' office.

“You’re entitled to have your attorney present,” Shaw began as she called for an elevator. 

“Yes, you made that clear when you summoned me here. Am I being charged with any crime, lieutenant?” 

“No.” Internally cursing her, Shaw stepped inside the elevator when the door opened and requested Area B. “This is just standard procedure.” Root’s silence continued until Shaw wanted to punch something. Not Root, oddly. Something _hard_ , hard enough to bloody her knuckles on. “Damn it, Root,” she muttered in an undertone. “I don’t have a choice here.” 

“Don’t you?” said Root tightly. She stalked past Shaw when the elevator door opened, towering over her in her classy heeled shoes. 

“This is my job,” Shaw said, when she caught up with Root’s stride down the corridor. 

Root’s eyes glittered as she cut Shaw an intense look, the corners of her mouth turning down momentarily before she pressed her lips together and flattened out her expression. 

The doors of the interview area whisked open as they approached and snapped closed behind them after they entered. Shaw took a seat at the small table inside the room and waited for Root to sit across from her. 

“These proceedings are being recorded. Do you understand?” 

“Yes.” Root’s head was held high and she gazed almost impassively down her nose at Shaw. Almost. Under the refined surface, an almost palpable fierce energy simmered, barely held in check. 

“Interviewer, Shaw, Lieutenant Sameen, ID 6741-4AF. Subject, Root. Subject has waived the presence of an attorney. Is that correct?” 

“Yes, the subject has waived the presence of an attorney.” Her lip curled, just perceptibly. 

“Are you acquainted with a licensed companion, Georgie Castle?” 

“No.” 

“Have you been to 156 West 89th Street?” 

“No, I don’t believe I have.” 

“Do you own a Ruger P-90, automatic combat weapon, circa 2005?” 

“It’s likely that I own a weapon of that make and era, but I’d have to check to be certain. Let's just say that I do.” 

“When did you purchase said weapon?” 

“Again, I’d have to check.” Root never blinked, never took her eyes from Shaw’s. “I have an extensive collection and don’t keep all the details on me.” 

“Did you purchase said weapon at Sotheby’s?” 

“It’s possible. I often add to my collection through auctions.” 

“Silent auctions?” 

“Occasionally.” 

Shaw’s stomach was clenched, rock-like. “Did you add the aforesaid weapon to your collection via its purchase at a silent auction at Sotheby’s on October second of last year?” 

Root took her link from her clutch and swiped through it. “No. I don’t have a record of that. It seems I was in Tokyo on that date, engaged in meetings. You can verify that easily.” 

_Dammit, Root. You know that’s no answer._ “Representatives are often used in auctions.” 

“They are.” Watching her dispassionately, Root tucked the link away again. “If you check with Sotheby’s, you’ll be told that I don’t use representatives. When I decide to acquire something, it’s because I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Assessed its quality up close. If and when I decide to bid, I do so personally. In a silent auction, I always either attend or directly participate by link.” 

“Isn’t it traditional to use either a sealed electronic bid or a representative authorized to go to a certain ceiling?” 

“I don’t generally care about traditions. The fact is, I could change my mind as to whether I want something that seemed attractive at first. It could lose its initial appeal after closer examination.” 

Shaw felt the bite of Root’s words, understood the meaning directed at her, and internally acknowledged that their _thing_ was done. She just had to ignore the weird hollow sensation that was taking form inside of her and get this goddamned interview done. As professional and clean as she could, despite the bullheaded bullshit game-playing from Root she was having to contend with. 

“The aforesaid weapon, registered in your name and purchased through silent auction at Sotheby’s in October of last year, was used to murder Georgie Castle at approximately seven-thirty last evening.” 

“You and I both know I wasn’t in New York at seven-thirty last evening.” Root tapped her fingertips one by one on the tabletop. “You traced the transmission, didn’t you?” 

Shaw didn’t answer. Couldn’t. “Your weapon was found at the scene.” 

“Have we established it was mine?” The tiny sneer appeared on her lip again. Okay, _that_ Shaw wanted to punch. 

“Who has access to your collection?” 

“I do. Only I do.” 

“Your staff?” 

“No. If you recall, lieutenant, my display cases are locked. Only I have the code.” 

“Codes can be broken.” 

“It’s possible,” Root agreed. “But unlikely. Also, unless my bioscan is used for entry, any case that is opened by any other means triggers an alarm.” 

_Goddammit, give me an opening._ Couldn’t she see Shaw was trying to save her stubborn-ass neck? “Alarms can be bypassed.” 

“That’s true. When any case is opened without my authorization, all entry to the room is sealed off. There’s no way to get out and security is immediately notified. I can assure you, lieutenant, it’s very secure.” 

Shaw glanced up as Finch came in. He tilted his head toward the door, and she rose. 

“Excuse me.” 

When the doors shut behind them, he gave her a tight-lipped smile. “You had it right, Shaw. Electronic bid, anonymous EFT, delivered to an EPS. The head sales manager at Sotheby’s claims it was an unusual procedure for Root. She always attends in person or by direct link and she’d never previously used this line in the fifteen years or so she’s dealt with them.” 

She allowed herself a satisfied grunt. “That checks with Root’s statement. What else?” 

“The detailed meta-analysis also threw up an alert on the registration record itself. It didn’t exist more than 48 hours ago, despite the gun’s purchase date several months back. It’s been inserted by some hack job—we’re working on the source. Given the false registration and the evidence from Sotheby’s, there’s no tangible way the gun can be linked to her. The commander says to let her go.” 

Shaw couldn’t afford to be relieved, not yet, and she only nodded. “Thanks, Finch.” 

She slipped back inside the interview room. “You’re free to go.” 

Root stood as Shaw stepped backward through the open door. “Just like that?” 

“We have no reason, at this time, to detain or inconvenience you any further.” 

“Inconvenience?” Root walked toward her until the doors slid shut behind her back. “Is that what you call this? An _inconvenience_?” 

Shaw told herself that Root was entitled to some anger and bitterness, but she was still obliged to do her work. “It’s my _job_. Three women are dead. Every possibility has to be explored.” 

“And I’m just one of your possibilities?” Root reached out and grabbed her shirt with one hand. The action surprised both of them given the way Root stared down the hand clenched in her shirt. She raised her eyes to Shaw’s face again. “Is that what it comes down to between us?” 

“I’m a cop. I can’t afford to overlook anything, to assume anything.” 

“To trust,” Root interrupted, “anything. Or anyone. If your investigations had leaned a little the other way, would you have done your _job_? Arrested me?” Her voice rose, became more nasal. “Would you have locked me in a _cage_ , Shaw?” 

Her eyes glittered with something that Shaw couldn’t quite recognise. She hesitated as she stared back at Root, wondering at what underlay that expression. 

“Step away from Lieutenant Shaw.” Finch came rushing back down the corridor toward them, as fast as his uneven gait would let him. “Step away!” 

Shaw rolled her eyes. It wasn’t as if she was in any actual danger, for chrissakes. “Leave us alone, Finch.” 

Tightening her mouth and making an obvious effort to regain her composure, Root dropped her hand from Shaw’s shirt and took a half step back as Finch approached. 

“I will not.” Brushing Shaw aside—she managed, as a professional police officer, not to punch him as he did so—he interposed himself between them and glared at Root. “ _You_ will not speak to the lieutenant in that way. She advocated for you, worked around the clock to gather the correct evidence. The way things stand presently, it would have cost her the job if she hadn’t. Simmons was preparing to serve her up as a sacrificial lamb because she was unwise enough to …be intimate with you.” 

“Shut up, Finch.” 

“Don’t be so obstinate, lieutenant.” 

“I said. Shut. Up.” Calm again, detached, she looked back at Root. “We have no further business here. The department appreciates your cooperation.” With a firm jaw and stone-cold eyes, she turned and strode away without another glance. 

Root tore her gaze from Shaw’s erect back as it receded down the corridor and abruptly turned toward Finch. “What on earth did you mean by that?” 

He gave her a disdainful look. “I hardly feel the need to discuss anything further with you.” 

Root stared him down. “You’re going to feel the need to book me for assaulting an officer in about two seconds, Lieutenant. _Tell me_ what you meant about Chief Simmons.” She paused, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Please.” 

“Do you really want to know?” Finch met her eyes, assessing her. Something in her face had him nod after a few seconds. “Very well, then.” He looked around and noticed the bathroom entrance nearby. “Let’s speak somewhere a little more private.” 

* * *

Shaw had the dog for company, at least. She was so _done_ right then that she didn’t even gripe at herself for being so weak as to want him there. She was already regretting the fact that she’d have to turn the hound over to Georgie’s family. She should have done so already, but she’d found solace in his wordless companionship. 

Even so, Shaw was nothing but irritated by the beep of her intercom. The personal channel on her link was off for a reason. Human company was not welcomed. Particularly not, she thought as she checked the screen, _Root’s_. 

_Fuck it._ She was raw enough to take the coward’s way. Leaving the summons unanswered, she walked back to the couch and curled up by Bear’s warm body. She started to pull up her hood so she could retreat into its warm cocoon, when the sound of her locks disengaging had her jumping to her feet and dashing toward the door. 

“You motherfucker,” she growled through clenched teeth when Root simply walked in like she owned the place. (She ignored the finicky part of her brain that informed her Root _did_ own the place.) “You’re crossing too many lines.” 

Root tucked her master back in her clutch. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I don’t want to see you. Take a fucking hint.” 

“I don’t like being used to undermine you.” 

“Don’t worry, you do fine with that all on your own.” 

Root raised her eyes heavenward, obviously willing patience. “Did you honestly expect me to have no reaction when you accused me of murder? When you believed it?” 

Shaw could only stare at her for a few seconds. She then shook her head hard and spoke in a forceful almost-whisper: “I never believed it. Never.” 

It was true. Even when Root was playing games or being evasive, everything she ever actually admitted to her had been completely honest. Shaw had realised it even before they slept together. That underlying pure frankness was partly why she’d let herself go there at all, let her gut override her cautious brain. 

The fact that Root—who almost seemed to scan her innermost thoughts at times—could get such a wrong idea in her head made Shaw feel as if the floor were momentarily unsteady beneath her feet. More evidence that there was no way that this ...whatever-the-fuck-it-was could work. She just needed to get this bullshit done with here, ASAP. 

“But it didn’t matter what I believed,” she continued in a harsh tone. “I put my personal feelings aside and did my job. Now, get the hell out.” 

She headed for the door, ready to throw Root bodily out of it, if necessary. When Root took her arm, she snapped out a fist in pure reflex, fast and hard. Root made no attempt to block the punch. Calmly, she wiped the blood from her mouth with a handkerchief she retrieved from her clutch, while Shaw stood rigid, her breathing fast and fists still clenched. 

With deliberate moves, Root returned the bloodied handkerchief to her bag, laid it on a side table, and faced Shaw. “Go ahead,” she invited. “Take another shot if it’ll make you feel better.” 

“Just leave me alone.” Shaw turned away and gripped the back of the sofa, where Bear had sat up and was looking at her in apparent concern. “You’re not going to make me feel guilty for doing what I had to do.” 

Root wondered at the sudden appearance of a _dog_ in Shaw’s living space, but it wasn’t the time to ask. “I thought you’d betrayed me, Shaw. I’d let you get close to me, even in this short time. Closer than—” She let out a long breath before she continued. “When you officially ordered me back to Earth, I had plenty of time in transit to wonder _why._ Why had you let us get close if you were only going to arrest me? I thought that you hadn’t believed me all along, that you’d taken my obvious attraction to you as an opportunity to get inside my life and try gathering evidence to incriminate me.” 

She was silent for a few moments. When she spoke again, her voice sounded almost forlorn. “Couldn’t you have told me you believed me when you ordered me back?” 

“No.” Shaw squeezed her eyes tight. “God, Root, don’t you realize it would have been worse if I had? If Elias didn’t believe I was objective, if Simmons got even a whiff that I showed you any degree of preferential treatment, it would have been worse. I couldn’t have moved on the psych profile so fast. I wouldn’t have been able to put Finch on a priority basis to check the trail of the weapon to eliminate probable cause.” 

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Root said quietly. “I hadn’t thought. I simply assumed the worst.” 

When Root laid a hand on her shoulder, Shaw shook it off and turned on her with an intense glare. “Goddammit, I told you to bring an attorney. I _told_ you. If Finch hadn’t hit the right buttons, they could have held you. You’re only out because he did it in time and the profile didn’t fit.” 

“And because you made those things happen. It seems I didn’t need an attorney. All I needed was you.” Root’s eyes seemed huge in her sombre face. “I’ve accused you of being suspicious, but I’ve been worse. Suspicious of your job, Shaw, even though I _knew_ your integrity, _knew_ you wanted to find the actual killer, not an easy scapegoat. I’m so sorry I let old demons whisper in my ear again.” 

“It doesn’t matter.” Shaw locked it all down, took control of herself. “It’s done. The fact that you have an unassailable alibi for the time of the murder, and that the gun was an obvious plant, shifts the focus away from you.” She felt unbearably tired. “It may not eliminate you completely, but Dr. Carter’s profiles are gold. Nobody overturns her diagnostics. She’s eliminated you, and that carries a lot of weight with the department and the PA.” 

“I wasn’t worried about the department or the PA.” 

“You should have been.” 

“It seems you’ve worried enough for me. I am very sorry.” 

“Forget it.” 

“This time I can’t. I’ve seen these dark shadows under your eyes too often since I’ve known you.” Root gently traced a thumb just above one cheekbone. “I don’t like being responsible for the ones I see now.” 

“I’m responsible for myself.” 

“So, I had nothing at all to do with putting your job in jeopardy?” Root raised her eyebrows. 

_Damn Finch, poking his pointy nose into my business._ “I make my own decisions. I pay my own consequences.” 

Root could not let that go. _Not this time. Not alone._ “The night I arrived at the satellite, after our night together, I called you. I could see you were worried, but you brushed it off. Finch told me exactly why you were worried that night. Your friend was angry and wanted to pay me back for making you unhappy. He absolutely did.” 

“Finch had no right—” 

“Perhaps not. He wouldn’t have had to if you’d said something.” Root laid her hands on Shaw’s forearms to stop her abrupt movement away. “Please don’t turn away from me,” she asked, her voice low. “You’re good at shutting people out, Sameen. But it won’t work with me.” 

“So what did you expect, Root? That I’d come crying to you because I got into hot water with the brass? ‘Oh help, you seduced me, and now I’m in trouble.’” Shaw’s face was full of scorn. “The hell with that. You didn’t ‘seduce’ me. I slept with you because I _wanted to_. I wanted to so badly that I didn’t give a shit about professional ethics. I got slammed for it and I’m handling it. I don’t need help. Yours or anyone’s.” 

“You don’t want it, certainly.” Root’s lower lip looked suspiciously pouty. 

“Don’t need it.” Shaw looked away from Root’s face. “The commander’s satisfied that you’re not involved in the murders. You’re clear, and other than what the department will officially designate as ‘an error of judgment’ on my part, so am I. If I’d been wrong about you, it’d be different.” 

“If you’d been wrong about me, it would have cost you your badge.” 

Shaw met her eyes again levelly. “Yes. I’d have lost my badge. I’d have lost everything. I would have deserved it. But it didn’t happen, so it’s over. Move on.” 

“Do you really think I’m going to walk away?” 

It weakened her, the low soft tone that came into Root’s voice. There was an intent look she focused on Shaw that was somehow never too much, even at that moment. It felt …risky. “I can’t afford you, Root. I can’t afford to get tangled up with you.” 

Root stepped forward and laid her hands on the back of the couch on either side of Shaw, not quite touching her. “I can’t afford you, either. It doesn’t seem to matter.” 

“Look—” 

Root shook her head slightly. “Please let me say this—I was unfair today, past experiences or not. I didn’t trust you, Sameen, then accused you of not trusting me.” 

“I didn’t expect you to think any differently. To act any differently.” 

That was like a hard gut-punch to Root, worse than the blow to the face. She struggled not to show it. She could understand why Shaw had low expectations, after all. “No, you didn't. I’m sorry for that, too. You risked a great deal for me. Why?” 

There were no easy answers. “I believed you.” 

Root’s gaze searched her face for some moments. Her eyes briefly filled with tears, but they were gone almost before Shaw noticed. “I’m grateful, Sameen. More than I can say.” 

Something that was knotted inside Shaw began to unwind itself. It meant something that Root had come to her (though breaking in was becoming a bad habit). That she'd listened and recognised her unfairness. That she'd apologised. That she _got_ it. And—it was still weird—that Root somehow got _her_. It was enough for now. 

She rested her hands on Root’s upper arms. “It wasn't logic. Just a judgment call,” she said, letting out a breath when Root touched her mouth to her cheek. 

Root smiled down at her and moved her hands to Shaw’s hips. “I’m beginning to trust that judgment of yours, Sameen. I promise I’m a fast learner. Will you let me keep trying for a while?” 

Shaw let her mouth turn upwards. “I know I can trust you to _be_ trying.” 

Root laughed. “You bet, darlin’.” She leaned in and kissed her cheek again. “I’m going to stay with you tonight.” Then another kiss to her temple. “I’m going to see that you sleep.” 

“Sex as a sedative?” 

Root frowned for a split second, but brushed her lips lightly over Shaw’s. “Whatever you wish.” She grabbed a hand and immediately began dragging Shaw toward the bedroom, flustering her. “Let’s see if we can find the right dosage.” 

* * *

Shaw was impressed with how Root was able to get rid of her heels, unpin her hair, get them both into the bedroom _and_ push Bear back out within a matter of seconds. Maybe she needed to do some work on her trust issues—Shaw could maybe relate, just a little—but there were plenty of other things she needed no lessons on at all. 

Root ordered the lights on at twenty percent and turned her back to Shaw. “Unzip me, please.” 

Shaw had no difficulty locating the dress zipper beneath Root’s flowing hair and pulled it down in one swift motion. Root eased the fine wool fabric off her shoulders and lowered the dress, revealing a glossy gunmetal grey silk slip underneath. She stepped out of the dress and placed it neatly beside her on the end of the bed. Shaw swallowed at the motion of Root’s shoulders and the lean muscle in her back as she did so. 

Root turned to see the avid expression lingering on Shaw’s face and smirked, placing a hand between her breasts. “Did you miss this, sweetie? It’s only been a couple of days.” 

Shaw gave her an appreciative grin. “Yeah, it’s a great view.” 

“So, why don’t you make yourself comfortable while you check out the scenery?” Root pointed at the chair that stood against the bedroom wall and turned her back to Shaw again. 

Shaw, amused, sat on the chair as instructed. Root pulled the slip over her head in one slow, steady movement and tossed it to join her dress on the bed. Shaw felt her eyes go wide as she stared at the exquisite sight in front of her. Root was now only clad in a delicate bra and matching underwear that showed off her neat, perfectly-curved ass, and sheer stay-up stockings that complemented her amazing legs. She raised both hands behind her head to gently shake out the locks that fell to her shoulder blades, her lean arm and back musculature again drawing Shaw's eye. 

Root let her hands fall from her hair, and she slowly, deliberately, turned herself to face Shaw. The delicate garments served to accentuate every centimeter of her long, pale body and longer legs as she moved, the diffuse pool of light in which she’d managed to position herself lending her skin a subtle glow. 

Shaw just stared, speechless. _All the woman did was take off some clothes and turn around, for chrissakes._ It was a complete change from the burly dudes Shaw usually went for, for real. 

The silence was getting a little awkward. “You wear that get-up to cop stations all the time?” Shaw finally said. She pressed her lips firmly together, trying for a little composure. 

Root tossed her head with a smirk. “It’s been many years since I’ve been inside a precinct, so I felt the need for a little staging. You wear that kind of dress and people become strangely reluctant to arrest the nice lady in it. Naturally, if she’s going to wear that kind of dress, a girl needs all the accoutrements to go with it.” 

“No complaints here,” said Shaw, with plain honesty. At the back of her mind, her curiosity was piqued by Root’s admission of needing _staging_ for cops in the past, but that could wait. 

“Good to know.” 

Root approached her on the chair—Shaw had a momentary wild thought of being stalked by an amazing-smelling puma—and bent down to kiss her in a leisurely way. Shaw immediately felt the heat gathering in her core as Root’s mouth claimed hers, and her hands rose to caress all the way up the back of Root’s thighs to her amazing silk-covered ass. 

Root gave a sharp exhalation that made Shaw instantly _ready_ , and she shifted her grip to pull Root down on top of her. Instead, Root grabbed her hands and stepped back, pulling Shaw to her feet. Without a word, she unzipped Shaw’s hoodie, pulled it off, and tossed it vaguely in the direction of the bed. She proceeded to methodically remove all of her clothes, until Shaw was completely naked and her breath uneven from all the nips, fingernail imprints, and delicious kisses that Root had given her as she worked. 

After the stress of the past day, Shaw was ready to let go and allow herself to be carried along by Root’s sure touch. Once all her clothes were completely gone, she pressed herself against her, welcoming Root’s hot mouth as her hands freed Shaw’s ponytail and loosened her hair, and the slide of Root’s warm skin against her own. 

Root kissed her once more, hard, then quietly exclaimed “Ow!” and laughed. She gingerly touched two fingers to her face, just above her lip. “That’s going to bruise, Sam. You caught a tooth earlier.” 

She started to make some kind of apology, but Root stopped her. “It’s my turn to say 'forget it’, Shaw. I grabbed you at the wrong time.” She gave one of her dorky smiles. “I don’t mind you leaving a mark. Maybe in more enjoyable circumstances next time.” 

“Yeah, sure, Root.” Shaw was pretty much done with conversation now. Although she filed away _marks_ for later consideration. 

It seemed that Root’s mind-reading was back online, because she said nothing more and grabbed Shaw hard by her upper arms, sinking her teeth right into the meat where Shaw’s neck met her shoulder. Shaw gasped out a breath as Root kept her teeth firmly clamped in her flesh and pushed her back onto the chair. Root's teeth and hands simultaneously let go of her, and she moved directly in front of Shaw to crouch down between her legs. Leaning in close, Root propped her forearms on Shaw’s thighs, and gave her a flirtatious smile. 

“This seems like a convenient spot, sweetie,” she purred. 

Shaw looked back at her through lowered eyelashes. “Oh, sure, it’s fine,” she said, as casual as she could manage, in spite of the ridiculous hotness of the lingerie-clad woman pressed up against her business. 

Root's admiring gaze eagerly skimmed over her before she leaned forward and took one of Shaw’s taut nipples in her mouth. She caressed it sensually with her lips and tongue, then sucked harder for a short while, scraping with her teeth, alternating between one breast and then the other. Shaw squirmed from the arousal sending sparks straight to her groin, while trying to rub up against some—any—part of Root to get some pressure where she needed it most.

Root shook her head with an annoying little _ah-ah_ sound and disengaged herself, pushing against Shaw’s thighs. Shaw’s blood was fizzing with thwarted arousal and she was about ready to throw something out the window—probably Root—when she bent to Shaw again, lower, and began a trail of open-mouthed kisses and bites all the way down her abs and right between her legs. 

Shaw let out a long low groan as Root commenced eating her out unhurriedly, luxuriously; her tongue, teeth and mouth pleasuring Shaw with mind-melting skill. While Root slowly feasted on her, she reached a hand over Shaw's abdomen and tugged randomly at her nipples, adding just the right amount of pain to keep the spicy heat building in tandem with the sensual pleasure. Shaw slid one hand into Root's hair, gripped the chair seat with the other, and gave herself up to the sensations washing over her. 

Root worked her over in the chair for what seemed like hours, but they soon moved to the floor. Root lay supine on the rug, touching herself while Shaw knelt over her. Shaw, clutching the end of her low bed, desperately ground down on Root’s face, riding her mouth. The barely controlled movements of Root's body and her semi-smothered noises pushed Shaw higher and hotter, almost unbearably so. 

She let up for a moment, edging her impending orgasm, and reached down to stroke a lock of loose hair away from Root's cheek. Root dragged in a deep breath and nuzzled at Shaw's inner thighs and labia, sucking and biting a little as her panting slowed. Then, abruptly, her fingers dug hard into Shaw's ass cheeks to pull her back down onto her mouth; Root sucked at her hard and fast, her nails scoring intensely stinging lines of pain into Shaw's ass. 

_Good score, everyone,_ flashed through Shaw's mind, _High marks all around,_ and she laughed out loud as her orgasm slammed into her in a rush of white heat. 

* * *

Later, with the lights still on low, Root watched Sameen sleep. She slept facedown, a limp sprawl of exhaustion. Root stroked a hand down her back—smooth skin, fine strong bones, firm muscle. Sameen didn’t stir. 

Experimentally, Root let her fingers trail through the ends of Sameen’s hair, enjoying how the soft light played over the glossy sable and barely-visible reddish highlights. She couldn’t resist gently tracing her fingers over Sameen’s lips—full, firm, so fiercely responsive. 

However much she was thrilled and gratified by what Shaw gave over to her, Root was overwhelmed by the realisation that had, unanticipated, taken her in turn. What that might mean for both of them. How much further would they go? 

It had ripped at her when she’d believed Shaw had thought her guilty. The sense of betrayal and disillusionment had been huge; its effect had been confounding. Weakness, _emotional_ weakness, was something she hadn’t felt in many, many years. 

Sameen had taken her back to a place of vulnerability from which Root thought she’d entirely escaped. She could hurt Root. They could hurt each other, whether or not Sameen would ever admit it. Those possibilities were something Root would have to consider carefully. 

But at the moment, the pressing question was _who_ wanted to hurt them both. And _why_. 

Root was still ruminating on the problem when she ordered the light off, gently linked her fingers with Sameen’s, and let herself join her in sleep. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw's adjusting to the stuff going on between her and Root, in a not-entirely-bad kind of way. She then has one annoying and one interesting conversation at Cop Central, but doesn't make much progress. She also decides that Root has more than one use, as much as she dislikes resorting to it. And they both learn a bit more about each other's pasts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing too exciting happens in this one, but we have some domestic Shoot. What can you do, things are evolving between them.
> 
> Also, last time, did anyone catch how Root did exactly as Shaw had previously asked? That is, she waited till Shaw was at home _before_ breaking in. That's evolution, hah. Sure, Root's boundaries are a little idiosyncratic, but never let it be said she doesn't adhere to others'. At least, those of people she cares about. Most of the time.
> 
> @[SloanGreyMercyDeath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SloanGreyMercyDeath) took pity on me. A few little changes and sparkle added in just the right place.

Shaw reached a hand across the bed when she woke and found it empty beside her. Root had gone. That was fine by her. Mornings after usually meant someone she was done with trying to hang around and force their attention on her. That kind of thing made her twitchy. Twitchy turned into pissed off. 

One thing that was different about this morning, and the morning after the last night she spent with Root, was that Shaw didn’t feel completely done with her yet. The sex was fucking amazing. More of that sure wouldn't hurt ...at least not in a bad way. (Shaw had to smirk, internally.)

Beyond the sex, Root’s mind was sharp and her insights were on point; she’d drawn Shaw's attention to aspects of the case that would have taken her longer to catch up with otherwise. The politics, especially. Despite her mercurial nature, pretty much everything Root did made sense in context. She could be rash, but she wasn't _stupid_. She got Shaw’s emotional affect without her needing to spell it out. (Shaw hated spelling shit out.) It was obvious Root wanted them to spend more time together, but she wasn’t creepy or clingy about it. She sure as hell wasn’t boring.

They were alike in some ways. Even significant ways, if Shaw was truthful with herself. But Root felt some things differently to the way she did. That was also the truth. Another truth was that Shaw had no fucking idea how things would continue if they ...continued. Even thinking about that possibility felt weird. 

_Enough thinking_. Shaw got up and efficiently made her bed. She took a quick shower, bundled into her warm robe, and headed into the kitchen. 

There was Root, leaning up against the counter in Shaw’s hoodie and socks, her legs bare, scanning through her link. She seemed, to Shaw’s befuddled brain, to be very much at home. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Good morning, sweetie,” Root said absentmindedly as she glanced up and reached behind her to open the AutoChef. “Making you coffee.” 

“Making me coffee?” 

“I heard you moving around.” She took the cups out and carried them to where Shaw was still hovering in the doorway. “It’s just sublime when you do that, Sam.” 

“Move around?” 

“No.” Root chuckled and kissed her lightly as she handed Shaw her coffee. “When you smile. You've got a great one, darlin’.” 

Was she smiling? Shaw hadn’t realized. She looked away to where Bear was lying by the table and chewing on something. “You must have gotten up early—” she began, looking back at Root, when she belatedly registered that the dog was chewing on something peculiar between his front paws. She whipped her head back around to look more closely and groaned loudly. 

Root’s gaze followed Shaw’s toward Bear and she laughed. “Bear and I properly introduced ourselves earlier—convenient that he has his name on his collar—when I discovered his excellent taste in shoes. Since I left them out for him to snack on last night, I can hardly blame him.” 

She watched Shaw affectionately, enjoying the way she briefly rubbed at her brow with two fingers. A cute tell that she was certain Shaw was unaware of. “Don’t worry too much, Shaw. I disposed of the non-leather parts—the rest is the real thing.” 

Shaw grimaced. “It isn’t the non-leather parts that I’m concerned about most.” 

“Don’t worry about any of it at all. I have more than one pair of shoes. I can live without those particular ones just fine. To answer your question,” Root continued briskly, without allowing Shaw to speak further, “I had a conference call scheduled with the satellite at six a.m. our time.” 

“Ah.” Shaw sipped her coffee, wondering how she had ever lived without the zing of the real thing in the morning. “I know those meetings were important. I’m sorry.” 

“We’d managed to hammer down most of the details while I was there in person. I can handle the rest from here.” 

“You’re not going back?” 

“No. No need at this point.” 

Shaw turned to the AutoChef and fiddled with her limited menu. “I’m out of most everything. Want a bagel or something?” 

“Sameen.” Root set her coffee down and laid her hands on Shaw’s shoulders. “Why don’t you want me to know you’re pleased I’m staying?” 

“Your alibi holds. It’s none of my business if you—” She broke off when Root turned her around. There was a glint of irritation in her eye and Shaw mentally prepared herself for a debate. She didn’t prepare for the kiss that came instead, the way Root’s mouth gently took hers, the way a slow wave of warmth rose up in her chest in response. 

She relaxed into Root’s body and let her forehead rest on the side of her neck. “I don’t know how to handle this,” she muttered. “I don’t have any precedent here. I need rules, Root. The parameters.” 

“I’m not a case that you need to solve, sweetie.” 

“I don’t even know what you are. But I know this is going too fast. It shouldn’t have even started, not with me.” 

Root gently took Shaw by the shoulders and separated herself so she could look into her face. “Why not?” 

“It’s complicated. Doesn’t matter right now. I have to get dressed and get to work.” 

“Give me something.” Root’s fingers tightened on Shaw’s shoulders. “I barely know anything about you either.” 

“I’m a cop,” she blurted out. “That’s all I am. I’m thirty years old and I’ve only been close to three people in my entire life. And even with them, I’ve never had the same feelings that they do.” 

“I know that, Sameen,” Root said steadily. 

“Maybe.” Shaw muttered. “There’s stuff I keep locked down on top of that.” 

“Such as?” 

“Such as letting shit matter too much. If it matters too much, it can be used against you. It can fuck you over until you’re nothing. I’ve been nothing. I might never have been normal—whatever the fuck that is—but I can’t be nothing ever again.” 

“Who used what mattered to you against you?” Root’s face was calm and her eyes remained on Shaw’s unflinchingly. 

“I don’t know.” But she did. Somewhere buried deep, she did. “I don’t remember, and I don’t want to remember. I’ve been a victim and I will do whatever it takes not to be one again. That’s all I was before I got into the academy. A victim, with other people pushing the buttons, making the decisions, pushing me one way, pulling me another.” 

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” 

“That’s what’s happening.” 

Root desperately wanted to ask more—but not now. Maybe not ever. But she understood something about the experiences Shaw mentioned, on a very personal level. Maybe it was time for her to share a little something as well. 

Root walked over to her purse and pulled a small item out of it. She turned back to Shaw and opened her hand. 

Baffled, Shaw stared down at the simple gray button in her palm. “That’s off my suit.” 

“Yes. Gray isn’t really your color, Sameen. I’d love to see you in a bespoke suit one day. Black. Or red, maybe. Either would look wonderful. But this? I found it in my limo. I meant to give it back to you.” 

“Oh.” But when Shaw reached out, Root closed her fingers over the button. 

“That’s a total lie, Shaw.” She laughed at herself. “I had no intention of giving it back.” 

“You got a button fetish you haven’t mentioned yet, Root?” 

“I’ve been carrying this around like a complete idiot.” 

Root’s eyes came back to hers and Shaw could see she was embarrassed. _First time for everything, I guess. What a dork._ Then something unexpected moved through Shaw. _But a cute one._ She shook her head at herself, knowing Root would think it was directed at her. “That’s weird.” 

“I thought so myself.” Root handed the button to her. “I don’t need this, really. I’m not a 14-year-old trying to cast love spells on something her crush once owned.” She shrugged and made a rueful face. “Do you know what else I think?” 

“What?” 

“It’s not just you being pushed and pulled around, Sameen. I’m in your hands every bit as much you are in mine. I’m every bit as uncomfortable as you are at finding myself in this position. Maybe it’s perverse”—she smiled at Shaw’s quiet scoffing sound— “but I still don’t want us to back away from it yet, discomfort and all.” 

“It, uh, complicates things,” said Shaw, her face completely neutral. 

“Absolutely,” Root agreed. 

“We don’t even know each other. Outside of the bedroom.” 

“I know I like exactly who you are. And we do know each other. We’ve both turned away from something shitty in our pasts and taken a new path. Become stronger, more resilient because of it. Now our paths have collided and we’re both suddenly on a new, unplanned trajectory. We don’t know where it’s going to go. Could be risky.” She gave an impish smile. “I think it’s exciting—are you as excited as I am?” 

One side of Shaw’s mouth curved up. “You’re right about not having a clue about where it’s going. Risky, yeah. Exciting? Maybe, Root.” She rolled her eyes at the incredibly goofy smile that spread over Root’s face and then shook her head. “But I have to concentrate on the investigation. It has to be my priority.” 

“I understand. But you’re entitled to a personal life.” 

“My personal life, this part of it, grew out of the investigation. And the killer’s making it more personal. Planting that gun so that suspicion would swing your way was a direct response to my involvement with you. The perp’s focused on me.” 

Root’s hand slowly curled into a fist by her side. “What do you mean?” 

_Rules. There are rules._ Tough shit, Shaw was about to break them. “I’ll tell you what I can while I’m getting dressed.” 

She headed to the bedroom with Bear wriggling past to trot in front of her. Root followed her into the room. “Do you remember that night you were here when I got home? The package that you found on the floor?” 

“Yes, it troubled you.” 

With a half laugh, Shaw shrugged out of her robe. “I’ve got a rep for having the best poker face in the station.” 

“I topped up my first five million through gambling.” 

“Really?” Shaw tugged a sweater over her head and reminded herself not to be distracted. “It was a recording of Lola Starr’s murder. The perp sent me Claire Hallen’s as well.” 

“The killer was in your apartment?” 

Shaw was busy discovering she had no clean underwear and didn’t notice the icy tone in Root’s voice. “Maybe, maybe not. I think not. No signs of forced entry. It could have been shoved under the door. Same thing the first time. Georgie’s murder was delivered to me. We had the building under surveillance.” 

Resigned, she pulled her pants over bare skin. “Somehow they either knew it or smelled it. But the killer made sure I got the vids, all three of them. They knew I was primary almost before I did.” 

She searched for socks and got lucky, finding a pair that matched. “The killer streamed a video of Georgie Castle to me minutes after she was murdered.” She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on the socks. “Then they planted a weapon and made sure it was traceable. Specifically to you. Not to knock how inconvenient a murder charge would have made your life, Root, but if I hadn’t had the commander behind me on this, I’d have been off the case and out of the department in a blink. The perp knows exactly what goes on inside Cop Central and what’s going on in my life.” 

“But not that I wasn’t even on the planet. Fortunately.” Root’s voice was mild but her eyes shone with something …dangerous. 

Shaw located her boots and tugged them on. “That was a break for both of us, but it’s not the end of it.” She rose and picked up her holster. “The perp’s still going to try to get to me, and you’re the best bet to achieve that.” 

Root watched Shaw automatically run a weapons check before strapping it on. “Why you?” 

“The perpetrator doesn’t have a high opinion of women. I bet it burns their ass having a female heading the investigation. It lowers their status.” She shrugged, pulled her hair back into its usual ponytail, and slipped a hairtie on. “At least that’s the shrink’s opinion.” 

She pushed Bear gently away when he tried to shove his nose in her crotch. 

“And is it the shrink’s opinion that the murderer might try to eliminate you by more direct means?” 

“I don’t fit the pattern.” 

Root frowned. “And if they break the pattern?” 

“I can handle myself.” 

“It’s worth risking your life for three women who are already dead?” 

“Yes, Root.” Shaw had heard the edge in Root’s voice and spoke firmly. “Yes, it is worth risking my life to find justice for the three women who are already dead. To try to prevent three more from dying. The killer is only halfway through. There’s been a note left with every victim. The perp wanted us to know right from the start that there was a plan. One of six, two of six, three of six. The asshole is deliberately challenging us, over these victims’ murdered bodies. I’ll do whatever the hell it takes to stop there being a fourth.” 

“That focus of yours is what first captured my attention, Shaw. But now I’m beginning to understand what the stakes are.” Root’s brow wrinkled in concern. 

Shaw moved toward Root and gently laid a hand on her cheek. Almost as soon as she had, she dropped her hand and stepped back again, embarrassed. “I’ve been a cop for ten years, Root, and never had more than some bumps and bruises. Don’t worry about it.” 

Root’s lower lip pouted a tiny bit. “I know you can handle yourself. But I think you’ll have to get used to having someone else worry about you, Sameen.” 

That hadn’t been the plan. Shaw turned and walked out of the bedroom to collect her coat and bag, both Root and the dog following behind. “I’m telling you all this so that you’ll understand what I’m up against. Why I can’t split my energies and start analyzing what’s between us.” 

“There’ll always be cases.” 

“I hope to God there won’t always be cases like this one. This isn’t murder for gain, or out of passion. It isn’t desperate or frenzied. It’s cold and calculated. It’s—” 

“Hateful?” 

“Yes. It’s fundamentally beyond fucked up. Whatever we’ve done with social programs, better psychology, treatments, they don’t solve everything. We still can’t control basic human failings: violence, lust, envy, arrogance.” 

“The seven deadly sins.” 

Shaw thought of the old woman and her poisoned pie. “Yeah. I’ve got to go.” 

“Will you come to me when you’re off duty tonight?” 

“I don’t know when I’ll be done. It could be—” 

“Will you come?” 

“Yeah, okay.” 

Root managed to keep her smile in return relatively demure, for once. Only her eyes held a hint of something more that Shaw couldn't quite pin down. A slight furrow appeared on her brow as Shaw turned to go. “Sameen. You should have gloves in this weather.” 

Shaw ruffled Bear’s neck as she stepped around him on her way to the door. She decoded the locks and tossed a brief grin over her shoulder at Root as she pulled on her beanie and exited. “I know—I keep losing the dumbass things.” 

* * *

Her upbeat mood lasted until she walked into her office and found Hallen and his aide waiting for her. Deliberately, Hallen stared at his ostentatious gold watch. “A leisurely start this morning, Lieutenant Shaw?” 

She knew damn well it was only a few minutes past eight, but she simply shrugged out of her coat and hung it up. “Yeah, it’s a pretty lush life around here. Is there something I can do for you, senator?” 

“I’m aware there’s been yet another murder. I’m dissatisfied with your progress, but I’m here for damage control. I do not want my granddaughter’s name linked with the two other victims. My granddaughter is dead. Nothing can change that. But I will not have the Hallen name sullied by the death of two common whores.” 

“You seem to have a low opinion of women, senator.” She watched him carefully. 

“On the contrary; I revere them. Which is why those who sell themselves, those who disregard morality and common decency, revolt me.” 

“Including your granddaughter?” 

He lurched out of his chair, his face purpling. Shaw was sure he would have struck her if Bannerman hadn’t stepped between them. 

“Senator, the lieutenant is only baiting you. Don’t give her the satisfaction.” 

“I will not tolerate your vile insinuations.” Hallen was breathing fast and Shaw wondered if he had any history of heart trouble. “My granddaughter paid dearly for her sins, and I will not see the rest of my loved ones dragged into public ridicule.” 

“Just trying to get my facts straight.” It was fascinating watching him battle for composure. He was having a rough time of it, his hands shaking and chest heaving. “I’m trying to find whoever killed Claire, senator. I assume that’s also high on your agenda.” 

“Finding the killer won’t get her back.” He sat again, obviously exhausted by the outburst. “What’s important now is to protect what’s left. To do that, Claire's case must be segregated from those other women.” 

“The senator has been overtaxing himself,” Bannerman put in. “His Morals Bill goes before the House tomorrow. The pressure of this family tragedy is a great weight.” 

“I appreciate that. I’m doing everything I can to close the case.” She tilted her head. “Political pressure is also a great weight on an investigation. I don’t care to be monitored on my personal time.” 

Bannerman gave her a mild smile. “I’m sorry. Could you qualify that?” 

“I was monitored and my personal relationship with a civilian reported to Chief Simmons. It’s no secret that Simmons and the senator are tight.” 

“The senator and Chief Simmons have a personal and a political allegiance,” Bannerman agreed. “However, it would hardly be ethical, or in the senator’s best interest, to monitor a member of the police force. I assure you, lieutenant, Senator Hallen has been much too involved with his own grief and his responsibilities to the country to worry about your, ah, personal relationships. It has come to our attention, however, through Chief Simmons, that you’ve had a number of liaisons with Root.” 

“She has been completely cleared of any connection with this investigation.” 

“Money buys immunity,” Hallen said in disgust. 

“Not in this office. Whether or not it lessens your grief, I intend to find the person who killed your granddaughter.” 

“I suppose I should commend your dedication.” Hallen rose. “See that your dedication doesn’t jeopardize my family’s reputation.” 

“What’s changed, senator?” Shaw asked sharply. “The first time we spoke, you threatened to have my job if I didn’t bring Claire’s murderer to justice, and quickly.” 

“She’s buried,” was all he said as he strode out. 

“Lieutenant.” Bannerman kept his voice low as he smiled at her in a conciliatory way. “I will repeat that the pressure on Senator Hallen is enormous, enough to crush a lesser man.” He let out a quiet sigh. “The fact is, it’s destroyed his wife. She’s had a breakdown.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“The doctors don’t know if she’ll recover. This additional tragedy has his son crazed with grief; his daughter has closed herself off from her family and gone into retreat. The senator’s only hope of restoring his family is to let Claire’s death, the horror of it, pass.” 

“Then it might be wise for the senator to take a step back and leave due process to the department.” 

“I wish I could convince him of that,” said Bannerman with a rueful smile. “But I believe that would be as fruitless an endeavor as convincing you to let Claire rest in peace.” 

“You’d be right.” 

“Well then.” He laid a hand on her arm briefly. “We must all do what we can to set things right. It was good to see you again, lieutenant.” 

Shaw closed the door behind him and pondered. Hallen certainly had the kind of hair-trigger temper that could lead to violence. She was almost sorry he didn’t also have the control, or the calculation, to have meticulously planned three murders. 

In any case, she’d have a hard time connecting a rabidly right-wing senator to a couple of New York sex workers. Maybe he was protecting his family. Maybe he was protecting Simmons, a political ally. No, that was bullshit. He might help cover up Simmons if the chief was somehow involved in the Starr and Castle homicides. But there was no way even that asshole would protect the killer of his grandchild. 

Too bad Shaw wasn’t looking for two perps. Regardless, she was going to peck away some at Simmons’s underpinnings. Carefully. It was important not to forget that there was a strong possibility that Hallen didn’t know one of his favorite political cronies had been blackmailed by his only granddaughter. She would have to find out. 

But for now, she had another hunch to follow. She called Tomas Koroa and waited impatiently until he finally came on the display, his eyes heavy and voice blurry with sleep. 

“You spend all your time in bed, Tomas?” 

“All I can, lieutenant.” He summoned up a drowsy but sexy smile, his teeth very white against the dark stubble on his face. 

Shaw rolled her eyes. “Couple of questions.” 

“Can’t you come on over and ask in person? I’m warm and naked and all alone.” 

“Pal, don’t you know there’s a law against soliciting a police officer?” 

“I’m talking freebie here. I told you—we’d keep it strictly personal.” 

“We’re keeping it strictly impersonal. You had an associate. Georgie Castle. Did you know her?” 

The seductive smile faded from his face. “Yeah, actually, I did. Not well, but I met her at a party about a year ago. She was new in the business. Fun, attractive. Game, you know. We hit it off.” 

“In what way?” 

“In a friendly way. We had a drink now and again. Once when Claire had an overbooking, I had her send a couple of clients Georgie’s way.” 

“Claire and Georgie knew each other?” Shaw’s mind went on high alert. 

“I don’t think so. As far as I remember, Claire contacted Georgie and asked her if she was interested in a couple of fresh tricks. Georgie gave it the green light and that was that. Oh, yeah, Claire said something about Georgie sending her a dozen roses. Real ones, like a thank-you gift. Claire got a real kick out of it.” 

“Everyone loved Georgie,” Shaw said under her breath. 

“When I heard Georgie was dead, it hit hard, I gotta tell you. With Claire it was a jolt, but not that much of a surprise. She lived on the edge. But Georgie, she was centered, you know?” 

“I may need to follow up on this, Tomas. Stay available.” 

“For you, lieutenant—” 

“Knock it off,” she ordered, before he could get cute. “What do you know about Claire’s diaries?” 

“She never let me read one,” he said easily. “I used to tease her about them. Seems to me she said she’d kept them since she was a kid. You got one? Hey, am I in it?” 

“Where’d she keep them?” 

“In her apartment, I guess. Where else?” 

_That was the question._ “If you think of anything else about Georgie or about the diaries, contact me.” 

“Day or night, Lieutenant Hot Cop. Count on me.” One of Tomas’s eyebrows rose in a self-mockingly alluring way. 

“Right.” But she was laughing when she ended the call. 

* * *

The sun was just setting when she arrived at Root’s. Shaw didn’t consider herself off duty yet. The favor she was going to ask for had been chafing at her all day. She’d decided on it, then rejected it, and wavered back and forth until she’d disgusted herself. 

In the end, she left Cop Central for the first time in months exactly at the end of her shift. It had been almost pointless being there, given the minimal progress she’d made. Finch had hit nothing but a dead end in his search for a second lock box. He had, with obvious reluctance, given her the list of cops she’d requested. Shaw intended to run a make on each of them—on her own time and in her own way. 

With some regret, she realized she’d finally decided she was going to use Root. 

Hersh opened the door with his usual expressionless demeanor. “You’re earlier than expected, lieutenant.” 

“If she isn’t in, I can wait.” 

“She’s in the study.” 

“Which is where, exactly?” 

Hersh allowed himself to raise an eyebrow. If Root hadn’t ordered him to show the woman in immediately, he would have shuffled her off to some small, poorly lit room. “This way, please.” 

“What exactly is it about me that rubs you wrong, Hersh?” 

His expression became even more stolid as he led her up a flight and down the wide corridor. “I have no idea what you mean, lieutenant. The study,” he announced when they reached a door and he opened it for her. 

It was a large two-level room with a fireplace on one side, lined with shelves of books, shaggy rugs, and art on the walls. On the lower level, on what was surely a leather sofa, Root lounged with a book in her hand. She was wearing her black-rimmed IR lenses, and, in that setting, looked even more like a hot librarian. Bear lay on the floor by her feet, gnawing on a huge bone that looked like it formerly belonged to a mastodon. 

“Sameen. You’re early.” She set the book aside and rose. 

“What's with the nerd glasses and the paper book, Root?” Shaw frowned as soon as she finished saying the words. Something about the woman just made whatever was on her mind fall right out her mouth. It was annoying. Root was annoying. Shaw was annoyed with herself. She also knew full well her annoyance was partly—mostly—because she still didn't want to ask Root for that favor. 

Root grinned at her. “Not to help me read, sweetie, at least not now. But I can keep an eye on the markets while I enjoy an old classic. Mixing work and play sometimes makes both a little more efficient.” 

Shaw was not surprised at the multitasking—there were only so many hours in the day, after all, to run your megacorp. She let her gaze roam over the room, where the firelight danced and shifted over hundreds of colorful spines. “So, where did you get all these?” 

“The books? Just another hobby. Don’t you like to read?” 

“Sure, now and again. But ebooks are much more convenient.” 

“So true, but physical books have a charm of their own. You’re welcome to borrow any you like.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“How about a drink?” 

“I could handle that.” 

Root’s link beeped. “That's a call I’ve been waiting for. Why don’t you get us both a glass of the wine I’ve had breathing over on the table?” 

“Sure.” She gave Bear a good rub and walked over to oblige. Because she wanted to eavesdrop, she forced herself to stay the length of the room away from where Root sat murmuring into her link. It gave her a chance to browse the books, examine the titles, and ponder Root’s taste in literature. 

“I’m sorry,” Root said when the call was complete. “That couldn’t wait.” 

“No problem.” 

She took the wine Shaw had poured for her. “Bear’s becoming quite attached to you.” 

“He’s a good boy.” Shaw enjoyed the way Bear’s tongue lolled and he smiled at her as she scratched his back through his thick coat. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with him. I called Georgie’s daughter and she said she just couldn’t face taking him. Pressing the matter only made her cry.” 

“You could keep him.” 

“I don’t know. You have to take care of pets.” 

“He seems like a well-adjusted dog. I think Martine can recommend a good 24/7 pet care place that she uses at a reasonable price.” Since Root owned the place, she would make sure it was a better than reasonable price. She sat on the sofa and waited for Shaw to join her. “Wanna tell me about your day, sweetie?” 

“Not very productive. Yours?” 

“Very productive.” 

“A lot of books you’ve got here,” said Shaw vapidly, knowing she was stalling. 

“I love them. I could barely read my name when I was six. Then I came across an old copy of Lord of the Rings,” Root said, smiling at the memory. “I badly wanted to figure it out, so I taught myself.” 

“Didn’t you go to school?” 

“Not if I could help it. You’ve got trouble in your eyes, Shaw,” Root said in a low tone, giving her that incredibly penetrating look she had at times. 

Shaw blew out a breath. What was the use of stalling when Root could see right through her? “I’ve got a problem. I want to do a run on Simmons. Obviously, I can’t go through channels or use either my personal or office links. The moment I try to dig on the chief of police, I’ll be flagged.” 

“And you’re wondering if I have a secured, unregistered system. Of course I do.” Root’s expression displayed new heights of smugness, which was saying something. 

“Of course you do,” Shaw repeated in a mutter. “An unregistered system is in violation of Code 453-B, section 35.” 

“I can’t tell you how aroused it makes me when you quote codes, lieutenant.” 

“It’s not funny. And what I’m asking you to do is illegal. It’s a serious offense to electronically breach the privacy of a city official.” 

Root batted her eyelashes. “You could arrest both of us afterward, lieutenant. I’d be delighted.” 

“This is serious, Root. I go by the book but now I’m asking you to help me break the law.” 

“Sam, darlin’, you have no idea how many I’ve already broken,” Root said, almost pityingly. Shaw simply looked at her, expressionless. “I was hacking into company systems by the time I was twelve, so I could earn a bankroll to get away from my shitty home. As well as the fallout from the murder of my best friend. I knew who the killer was. No-one believed me.” 

Shaw’s eyebrows had risen at the brief bio, but now they lowered. “That’s fucked up.” 

“It’s in the past. I got out. It took a little longer, but Hanna’s killer got his justice too,” Root added offhandedly as she rose and drew Shaw to her feet. 

Shaw chose not to speculate too much on Root's notion of ‘justice’ as she went over to the small table and fetched the wine bottle. 

She took Shaw's hand and led her over to the stairs. “I was a hacker for hire—I stole money for myself and for clients. I used blackmail, extortion, whatever I could, to bring down systems and companies. Even a head of state, once. A small state.” Root smiled self-mockingly as they headed up to the second level. “I branched out into other, mm, enterprises, more direct action. Got my first gun, as you know, learned to use it, a lot of them. Smuggled goods, did some high-stakes gambling, used tech to cheat there too. You’re not corrupting me with such a trivial request, Shaw.” 

Shaw didn’t look at her. But she had to ask. “Do you—” 

“Do I hack and steal and all the rest now?” Root gave her a devilish smile. “You’d hate that, wouldn’t you, Sam? I almost wish I could say yes, just to make you squirm.” 

Shaw raised her eyes ceilingward in exasperation as they paused beside a closed door on the second floor. 

“I learned a long time ago that there are hacks—people hacks, business hacks—that are more exciting because they’re legitimate. Well, mostly legitimate.” Root turned to decode the door. “A company pads their books, invests in polluting industries, exploits their workers. Sometimes secret internal documents get leaked to powerful media. Regulators get tip-offs to criminal activity.” She opened the door and turned toward Shaw again, looking vastly pleased with herself. “I found that blackmail and extortion are unnecessary when you can exploit corruption and hubris. Winning is _so_ much more fun when you take them down with their own stupid weaknesses.” 

Root stepped aside to allow Shaw through the door and followed close behind her. “But for less respectable hard-earned skills, it’s always good to keep your hand in." 

Shaw turned her gaze in Root’s direction and simply stared at her. _This fucking nerd._

Root “winked” back with both eyes, completely unabashed, and moved past her into the room. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Root and Shaw are on the hunt together, in the digital sense, and they dig up something very interesting.
> 
> And they _really_ dig each other, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is quite long, and originally ended with a very traumatic episode from Shaw's past. It took me a long time to rewrite, and I was tempted to just skip it, but it's germane to the arc of the original. It's in the next chapter now instead.
> 
> Gratutious smut episode is between the first and second scene breaks. 
> 
> Because this took so long to spit out, my amazing beta has had an attack of actual real life and proper work to do, so this is raw. If some magic dust gets sprinkled later, I will update.

Shaw glanced around the room as she followed along behind Root. Compared to the rest of the house that she’d seen, this room was relatively plain, obviously dedicated to work. No fancy art on the walls, although there was a weird black stuffed toy thing sitting on a shelf at the side of the room. She’d seen something like it in the parlor, on her first visit. Maybe it was the same one. Shaw would not put it past Root to cart a weird stuffed toy around with her everywhere. 

The console that Root strode over toward was vaguely crescent-shaped and deep indigo in colour, with abstract shapes in muted colours slowly morphing over its surface. It looked like a sigmoid curve from the side, the satiny-smooth flat work area curving up to a vertical orientation at its rear. 

There were gadgets on a bench at the side of the room, including a materials printer, a small laser, armatures of varying sizes, confetti-sized crystalline slivers of the type used as internal chips, and several other pieces of hardware that Shaw didn’t recognize. Shelves were stacked with more tools and storage bins containing all kinds of components. Shaw was a little surprised to realise that sophisticated gadgets—going by the evidence of the parts she could see—could be assembled outside fabrication plants. 

The floor was a beautifully ornate wooden parquet, with the inevitable colorful shag rugs arranged here and there. The furnishings included a selection of task chairs of various shapes, a long couch facing the window with a multicolored comforter draped over one end, a low table, and a counter against the adjacent wall that held a sink and an AutoChef. 

The single window looked over the city and glowed with the last light from the setting sun. It seemed that even in a dedicated workspace, Root needed a certain kind of ambiance. 

Root slipped on her mesh nerd gloves—Shaw had no idea whether they were the same ones she’d had a personal encounter with, but her lips twitched in memory nonetheless—and the console and the entire dark-hued wall facing it both came to life. Various graphs and heatmaps appeared on the wall display, some extending out into the room in 3D space and morphing to show various tech statuses that Root could undoubtedly interpret. The console acquired a few muted glowing outlines on its surface for controls, while its rear displayed similar graphics to those on the main display. 

Shaw had heard that IRCCA had the swankiest base system in the country. Even though very little was visible at a glance, she suspected Root’s matched it. That wall display alone was vastly superior to any the New York Police and Security Department used—or could afford—even in the lofty Electronic Detection Division. 

“Quite a setup,” Shaw commented. 

“Not quite as comfortable as my office, but it has the essentials.” Root moved behind the main console, looking completely in control of her domain, and touched a mesh-encased finger to the bioscanner. “Root. Open operations.” 

A new area on the console immediately began to glow. “New bioscan and clearance,” she continued and gestured to Shaw. “Cleared for tier two status.” 

At Root’s nod, Shaw touched her finger to the bioscanner and felt the faint tingle as it read her DNA. She spoke for the voiceprint: “Shaw.” 

“There you go.” Root took her seat. “The system will accept your voice and gesture inputs now.” 

“What’s tier two status?” 

Root smiled sweetly at her. “Enough to give you everything you need to know—but not enough to override my commands.” 

“Right.” Shaw pursed her lips as she looked at the console and then the various streams of data on the wall display. She wished that Finch and his computer-minded brain were there to come up with the right kind of queries to make. _Start at the top—it’s as good as anything else._ “Search Patrick Simmons, Chief of Police and Security, New York City. All financial data.” 

“Straight to the heart,” Root murmured. 

“I’ve wasted enough time already. This can’t be traced?” 

“Not only can’t it be traced, but there’ll be no record of the search.” 

Shaw didn’t even need to glance Root’s way to detect the smug expression undoubtedly on her face. 

The machine responded in a honeyed female tone: `Simmons, Patrick T. Financial records. Searching.`

At Shaw’s lifted brow, Root smiled teasingly. “I prefer to work with pleasant voices.” 

“I was going to ask,” Shaw returned with a stony look, “how you can access data without alerting the System Audit, Monitoring and Intrusion Guardian." 

“No system’s foolproof or completely breach resistant—not even the ubiquitous SamiGuard. It’s an excellent deterrent to your average hacker. But with the right equipment, it can be compromised. I have the right equipment"— _big fucking surprise_ , thought Shaw—"and I enjoy the little cat and mouse games we play. It’s especially fun because SamiGuard thinks that _it_ is the cat. Here comes the data.” 

Shaw glanced up and saw Simmons’s credit report appear on the large display. It was the standard business: vehicle loans, mortgages, credit card balances. 

“That’s a hefty credit bill,” she said thoughtfully. “And I don’t think it’s common knowledge he owns a place on Long Island.” 

“Not quite motive for murder, sadly. He maintains a Class A rating, which means he pays what he owes. Hm, here’s a bank account.” 

Shaw studied the numbers, dissatisfied. “Nothing out of line, pretty average deposits and withdrawals—mostly automatic bill transfers that jibe with the credit report. What’s Hugo’s?” 

“Snooty clothier,” Root told her with the smallest sneer of disdain. “Somewhat second rate.” 

“Hell of a lot to spend on clothes.” 

“Sweetie, I’m going to have to corrupt you. It’s only too much if they’re inferior clothes.” 

Shaw sniffed and stuck her thumbs in the front pockets of her plain charcoal pants. 

“Here’s his brokerage account. Wimpy,” Root added after a quick scan. 

“What do you mean?” 

“His investments, such as they are. All no risk. Government issue, a few mutual funds, a smattering of blue chip. everything on-planet.” 

“What’s wrong with that?” 

“What’s life without a little risk?” Root slanted her a look. “Do you invest, lieutenant?” 

“Yeah, right.” She was still trying to make sense of the abbreviations and percentage points. “I check out the stock reports twice a day.” 

Root tilted her head to look at Shaw with an exaggeratedly tolerant expression and gave a mild eyeroll. 

Shaw ignored her smartass face. “How about contributions, political, charities, that kind of thing?” 

“Access tax offsets,” Root ordered. “Main display.” 

Shaw waited, impatiently tapping a hand on her thigh. Data scrolled on. “He puts his money where his heart is,” she muttered, scanning his payments to the Conservative Party and Hallen’s campaign fund. 

“Not particularly generous otherwise. Hmm.” Root’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting, a very hefty gift to Moral Values.” 

“That’s an extremist group, isn’t it?” 

“I’d call it that, yes. The faithful prefer to think of it as an organization dedicated to saving all of us sinners from ourselves. Hallen is a strong proponent.” 

Shaw was scanning through her own mental files. “They’re suspected of sabotaging the main data banks at several large contraception control clinics.” 

Root gave a contemptuous snort. “All those people deciding for themselves if and when they want to conceive and how many children they want if they do. Obviously someone has to bring them back to their senses.” 

“Right.” Dissatisfied, Shaw stuck her hands in her pockets. “It’s a dangerous connection for someone like Simmons. He likes to play middle of the road. He ran on a Moderate ticket.” 

“Yes, cloaking his Conservative ties and leanings to do so. In the last few years he’s been cautiously removing the layers. He wants to be governor and maybe he believes Hallen can put him there. Politics is a bartering game.” 

“Politics. Claire Hallen’s blackmail file was heavy on politicians. Sex, murder, politics,” Shaw murmured. “The more things change…” 

“Yes, the more they remain the same. People still fuck each other, humans still kill humans, and politicians still cuddle babies and lie.” 

Their hunt hadn’t found anything of use, yet, and Shaw briefly wished for Finch again to help refine the search. _Twentieth-century murders, twentieth-century motives._ There was one other thing that hadn’t changed over the last millennium. Taxes. 

“Can we get his IRS data? The past three years?” 

“That’s a little trickier.” Root’s mouth had already quirked up at the challenge. 

“It’s also a federal offense. Listen, Root—” 

“Just a minute, please.” She tapped her index finger twice on the console’s surface and then started rapidly _chording_ on it with all ten fingers, as if on a piano keyboard. The console did not discernibly alter beneath her fingertips, but colorful shapes occasionally flowed from underneath to take form as icons on its surface, ready for retrieval, or were flicked up to the main display to reveal the data inside. From the movement of Root's eyes, it was obvious her lenses were overlaying additional information in the room's space that was invisible to Shaw. 

Moderately astonished, Shaw watched as Root’s fingers continued to fly over the invisible ‘keys’. “Where’d you learn to do that?” Even with required departmental training, she was barely competent on manual computer keyboarding, two fingers at a time. She’d never seen anyone do it like this in real life. 

“Around,” Root said absently, “In my misspent youth. I need to get around the security and it’s going to take some time. Maybe pour us some more wine, please?” 

An attack of concern had Shaw walking over to her. “I don’t want this to come back on you—” 

“Mm,” said Root, paying her absolutely no attention. A couple of wrinkles appeared on her brow as she concentrated on maneuvering her way through the security labyrinth. 

“Root—” 

Her head came up and there was impatience in her eyes. “We’ve already opened the door, Shaw. Now we go through or we back away completely.” 

Shaw thought of three women, dead because she hadn’t been able to stop it. Hadn’t known enough to stop it. With a nod, she turned away again. 

She poured the wine for them both, then moved to stand in front of the wall display. The report seemed almost too tidy to Shaw’s suspicious mind, all nicely wrapped up with a bow on top. Class A credit rating, prompt payment of debts, conservative, and, Shaw assumed, relatively small investments. Surely that was more money than average spent on clothes, wine shops, and jewelry. But it wasn’t a crime to have expensive taste. Not when you paid for it. Even the second home wasn’t a criminal offense. Some of the political contributions were dicey for a registered Moderate, but still, not criminal. 

She heard Root curse softly and looked back at her. She was still tapping away and frowning at whatever it was she could see, completely oblivious to everything else. Shaw might as well not have been there. It was yet another side to her, an unexpected one. Even though Root had said she was a hacker, Shaw wouldn’t have guessed she had the deep technical skill to manually interface with and manipulate systems in real time.

According to conversations she'd had with Finch, that kind of expertise was almost a lost art, except for low-level systems designers and extremely elite hackers. He'd explained that hackers at that level weren’t _typing_ in real time, but drawing on libraries of precompiled routines they could deploy on the fly, selecting, tweaking and customising as required. He himself didn’t have that kind of skill—Shaw understood that his particular expertise was to build powerful systems that did the work for him. 

Finch had described his work in gaming terms once: his systems were powerful _tanks_ , designed to absorb a lot, break down barriers, and crush attempts by crooks to screw things up or hide their crimes, while remaining impervious—with any luck—to their attacks. Eyeing Root and the dexterous way she operated her system, Shaw decided that the woman was definitely a _rogue_ , in more ways than one. 

Even so, there she was, rich, powerful, elegant, all the rest, working hard on Shaw’s behalf with her own two hands and sharp intellect, bringing her personal resources and capabilities to bear to find the information that she needed. Doing her best to help prevent any more victims of this fucked-up killer. She was doing a damn good job of it so far. Not to mention looking seriously hot—lean and dangerous in her form-fitting black jeans and eggplant-colored button-up shirt as she frowned in concentration at her work. 

For a moment, Shaw let herself forget about the business at hand and smiled at her. “You know, Root, you’re kinda cute.” 

She thought it probably was the first time she’d truly surprised her. Root's head came up abruptly and her eyes were startled—for perhaps two heartbeats. Then that suggestive smile came into them. The one that made Shaw’s own pulse jump with anticipation. 

“You’re going to have to do better than that, lieutenant. We’re in.” 

“No shit?” Anticipation went through her as she spun around to look back at the main display. “Put it up.” 

“Whatever you say, Sam," said Root, with a slight hint of irony in her tone. 

“There’s his bottom line.” Shaw frowned over the gross income. “It’s about right, wouldn’t you say—salarywise.” 

“Some interest and dividends from investments.” Root kept the data scrolling. “A few honorariums for personal appearances and speeches. He lives close, but just within his means, according to all of the data shown.” 

“Hell.” Shaw tossed back wine. “What other data is there?” 

“For a sharp cop, that’s a pretty naïve question. Underground accounts,” Root explained. “Two sets of books is a tried and true and very traditional method of hiding illicit income.” 

“If you had illicit income, why would you be stupid enough to document it?” 

“An excellent question. But people do. Yes,” Root continued, answering Shaw’s unspoken question as to her own bookkeeping methods. “Of course I do too.” 

Shaw shot her a hard look. “I don’t want to know about it.” 

Root shrugged, smug smile firmly in place. “The point being, because I do, I know how it’s done. Everything seems above board, don’t you think? Nothing more to be found there for now." She ordered the IRS reports to be bundled in one area on the display. “Let’s try going down a level. Search, Simmons, Patrick T, offshore accounts.” 
    
    
    No known data.
    

“There’s always more data,” Root muttered, undeterred. She went back to her keying and an alert tone sounded. 

“What’s that for?” 

“It’s just telling me I’m hitting a wall.” Root opened the buttons at her cuffs and rolled up her sleeves. The gesture had Shaw trying not to stare at her slender yet strong forearms and agile hands, like a complete doofus. “If there’s a wall, there’s always something behind it.” 

Root continued to work one-handed as she sipped her wine. When she repeated her command, the response had shifted. 
    
    
    Data protected.
    

“That’s more like it.” 

“How can you—” 

“A moment, please,” she ordered, and had Shaw subsiding into impatient silence. “Input, start keycrack routine and search account matches.” 

Seemingly satisfied with her progress, Root placed her lenses on the console and pushed her chair back. “This will take a little time. Why don’t you come over here?” 

“Can you show me how you—” Shaw broke off in surprise when Root pulled her into her lap. “Hey, this is important.” 

“So is this, darlin’.” Root took Shaw’s mouth with hers, sliding her hand up her hip to just under the curve of her breast. “It could take an hour, maybe more, to crack the keys.” Those agile hands were already moving under her sweater, the cool mesh on them giving Shaw literal goosebumps. “You don’t like to waste time, as I recall.” 

“No, I don’t.” It was the first time in her life she’d ever sat on anyone’s lap and it didn't feel bad at all. _What the hell._ She wrapped her arms around Root’s neck and kissed her back, enjoying the shudder of Root’s body under her as she responded to Shaw’s demanding mouth. 

* * *

Shaw yanked off her boots and moved to straddle Root’s lap, pressing against her with as much of her body as she could and grinding against her pelvis. She gave Root a narrow-eyed glare as the chair began to tilt back under them, but didn’t stop what she was doing. “The weight limit on this thing better be decent.” 

“Around 200 kilos,” Root said breathlessly, nearly supine beneath her, her face flushed from the movement of Shaw’s body on her own. “We’ll be fine.” 

Shaw wriggled a little so that she practically had her entire body stretched on top of Root’s and leaned down to bite her lip. The top one, where the bruise still showed on the left side. She wasn’t too proud to admit she thought it was pretty hot that her mark was still there.

Root sucked in a breath and looked knowingly back at Shaw through her lowered eyelashes. She grabbed the back of Shaw’s neck to bring her in for another long kiss, her tongue slipping into Shaw’s mouth and making her groan out loud. Root’s other hand firmly squeezed her breasts in turn, sending hot bolts of sensation into Shaw's spine as she felt her nipples harden. 

Root made a sudden annoyed sound and pulled her hands away. Shaw’s brows drew together, but Root muttered, “I can’t feel you with these on.” 

She brought her hands together over her chest and did something to the gloves. They immediately loosened, as if a catch had been undone, and Root simply shook them off her hands onto the floor. She smiled coyly and said, “It’s good to have an easy out when you need one.” 

Shaw nearly scoffed out loud at Root’s remark, but was able to control herself. _Just you wait, nerd_. It wasn’t information she gave out at the drop of a dime, but Shaw had yet to encounter any restraints available to civilians she couldn’t get out of. She didn’t want to make plans about Root as such, but it would be pretty damn great if she got to demonstrate her skills there. Maybe someday. 

Both of Root’s hands were back on her breasts, occasionally tugging at her nipples and sending those sparks down her spine again. Shaw squirmed against her, her mouth hungry, insistent. Root’s hands slid down and grabbed her ass, grinding Shaw against her as their kisses became harder, Root nipping at her lips as she let out occasional eager sounds. 

Shaw pulled away slightly from Root and one side of her mouth curved up as she looked down at her. “I liked what we did in the shower that morning.” 

“We did a few things in the shower, sweetie,” said Root, her eyes sparkling. “What in particular did you have in mind?” 

Shaw simply gave her hips a shimmy under Root’s hands and Root laughed in delight. 

“I think we can manage something along the same lines, if you want, baby.” 

Without a word, Shaw shifted her weight back until the chair smoothly raised itself. As it did, Shaw hopped off and took Root’s hands to pull her up. Root needed no further encouragement. She grabbed Shaw by the arm and pulled her over to the console. Giving her a dancer-like twirl—Shaw had to smile—Root pressed her body into Shaw’s from behind and grabbed her hands to plant them on top of the console. 

Shaw was now mostly bent over and she rubbed her ass up against Root’s hipbones, pressing against her so that she could fully extend her back and give it a nice little arch. Root made a deep _mmm_ sound and her hips pushed back against Shaw's movements, grinding against her in a way that got her wet within seconds. 

Root paused to reach around and undo Shaw’s belt and pants. Shaw wriggled her hips to help as Root pulled her pants down to her knees. She stepped back and caressed Shaw’s ass with her warm hands, adding the occasional squeeze for variety’s sake. 

“This is absolutely perfect, Sameen, literally the best ass I’ve ever seen,” she said, her voice throaty. 

Shaw knew it was pretty damn good—she worked hard on her body—but it never hurt to hear it said. Time it had some attention, though. “It’s getting a little cold hanging out there, Root.” 

She smiled to herself as Root huffed a small sound of amusement, then exclaimed a surprised “ah!” when Root, with zero warning, landed her hand firmly on Shaw’s ass cheek with a loud, stinging slap. 

Root laughed out loud as she whapped the other cheek in exactly the same way. “Pardon me, Shaw,” she said, in an entirely unrepentant tone. “I thought you wanted it warmed up? If you need it to be gentle, well, you can always ask.” 

Shaw gave a snort and swayed her hips slowly to and fro at her in an insolent kind of way. Root definitely got her intention, given the series of sharp slaps she immediately doled out in quick succession, increasing the intensity with each one. She paused for a minute or so while she rubbed some of the sting away and Shaw’s breathing leveled out. She then laid down several more spanks at a measured pace, even harder, humming in pleasure at the sporadic stifled noises that Shaw made. 

Before long, Root let her hands come to rest on Shaw's butt and she moved in a little closer behind her. She massaged the hot skin firmly but gently with her palms as Shaw’s panting slowed. 

“How many was that, sweetie?” she asked lightly. 

Shaw was no fool. “Eleven per side,” she said, not bothering to keep the smugness from her voice. Of course she had been keeping count. 

Root made an amused sound. “Good girl, Sameen. Exactly right.” 

Shaw shivered a little at her low, caressing tone. Yeah, she liked being told that. A lot. 

Root’s hands drifted higher up and her thumbs caressed just above her ass on both sides. “I love these dimples here. It makes it very hard to keep my hands off this entire area.” 

“Who’s asking you to?” Shaw’s eyes closed as she arched into Root’s touch. 

“Mm, if I didn’t keep my hands off that, I wouldn’t be able to do this,” Root murmured in a teasing tone. She slid a hand over Shaw’s hip and down between her legs, letting out a low sound as she found Shaw’s wetness. 

She caressed with her fingers, spreading the wetness around, then began to stroke in a slow, easy rhythm. Shaw breathed out as Root leaned down to gently rest her body on Shaw’s back, and she let her head drop between her outstretched arms. They both groaned as Root’s hips pressed up against Shaw’s tingling warm ass and she rocked them together steadily in time with the movement of her fingers. 

After a few minutes of that delicious touch, random breast-groping from Root’s other hand, and the occasional clamping of her teeth on the back of Shaw’s neck, Shaw was quivering from pent-up arousal, her breath coming in thick pants. Root was in not much better state, if her ragged breathing was any indication. 

Her voice came low into Shaw’s ear. “I was going to spank you a little more, maybe borrow your belt, Sameen, but…” 

“Uh-uh,” muttered Shaw, feeling like she was about to explode. “Past that now.” 

“Oh, good.” Root let out a brief hum, considering. “I have an idea. Stay here a minute.” 

“What—?” said Shaw, confused, as Root withdrew her hand from between Shaw’s legs and stepped away from her. 

Root headed to the shelves at the side of the room, but glanced over as Shaw raised her head. “Stay there, please, Sameen.” 

Shaw frowned and shook her head slightly, but she maintained her bent-over position with her palms on top of the console. For now. _This had better be worth it._ She had been _close._ She bit her lip and concentrated on not taking matters into her own hands while she waited for Root to stop fucking around with the opaque storage bin that she slid out from a low shelf. 

Root turned around and came striding back with a bunch of items in her hands. She deposited them on the console, directly in front of Shaw’s eyes: a lube dispenser, a swanky harness, and a very nicely-sized strap-on dildo. _Now we’re talking._ Of course the goddamned nerd had a sex toy stash in her tech-den. 

“Any problems here?” Root asked. “How’s the dick size?” 

“Looks good,” said Shaw. It did. Long enough and nicely girthy. Every part of her was now burning with the desire to have it shoved into her, as soon as possible. 

“Wonderful,” said Root. “It’s got a few extras as well.” She touched it and Shaw could feel it vibrate through the console’s surface. Root then grabbed the harness, evidently just as eager as she was to get to business. 

Shaw heard Root’s zipper go down and the rustle of cloth, but she didn’t seem to be taking off her jeans completely. The harness design had seemed a little unusual from her quick glance, so if it meant less horsing around to get it on, great. Sure enough, Root reached past her for the strap-on dick within seconds. 

She made a quiet _mmph_ sound after a moment or two and chuckled. “Vibe's just a tiny bit intense to start with.” 

Shaw merely waited patiently, kind of, for her finish getting geared up. Root crouched and pulled one of Shaw’s pants legs further down, urging her to pull her leg out. That seemed like a good idea. Once she’d freed one leg, Root evidently felt that was sufficient. She stood, reached past Shaw once more and held her hand under the lube dispenser, which exuded a good quantity onto her fingers. Shaw heard her slick up the strap-on and finally, _finally_ , felt the wet tip of the shaft pressing up near her entrance. 

Root shuffled her feet a little between Shaw’s and bent her knees slightly, resting a hand on Shaw’s lower back. Shaw adjusted her stance and reached down to help guide the shaft as Root slowly pressed it in, all the way down until Shaw could feel Root’s jeans rough against her hot skin. 

Shaw shivered from the sensation of slick fullness inside her and began to move, rocking just a little against the toy’s length as she adjusted. Root took up the rhythm and gradually picked up the pace and stroke, until she was sliding the whole length home smoothly, her hands on Shaw’s hips guiding her movement. 

Shaw’s teeth were clamped on her lower lip and her eyes squeezed shut as the waves of pleasure built in her with each of Root’s long, delicious, deep thrusts inside, occasionally interspersed with shorter intense ones. One of Root’s hands left her hip and reached between her legs again. 

“Oh, _fuck_ , Root.” Shaw gave a muffled groan as Root’s fingers began to stroke her simultaneously with her thrusts. 

Root inhaled sharply as she shortened her thrusts and upped the pace a notch in response. It was only a short while until Shaw, violent heat suffusing her entire body from head to toe, uttered a series of wordless sounds as she pushed back harder against Root, her hands clenching on the edge of the console. Root made an intense low sound of her own and her rhythm became choppier, the thrusts more direct. 

That guttural sound and the sudden change in motion was it for Shaw—she cried out as her orgasm rushed up her spine to burst like fireworks in her head. Root’s fingers firmly dug into her hips, and her next thrust pushed Shaw hard toward the console. Shaw growled low and braced her arms, surfing the wave as Root continued to pound her with sharp ferocious strokes.

Root choked out a loud cry as she began to come, her angle up against Shaw changing as she thrust deep, abruptly sending Shaw over another peak. Root continued to grind deep in her through her own orgasm, until they finally came to rest, quivering against each other and panting hard. After a minute or so, Root carefully eased out of Shaw, making her hiss out a long breath between her teeth. 

Shaw turned around as soon as Root backed away, hopping over her loose pants leg, and pushed her back down on the chair. Root made a little _unf_ sound as she landed, and they grinned at each other like idiots. Shaw reached back to grab another dollop of lube from the dispenser and then climbed on board. 

She straddled Root’s lap, kissing her deeply, and stroked the lube thoroughly over the strap-on. Root gazed down at Shaw's hand, riveted at the sight of her glistening fingers working over the shaft. She briefly licked her parted lips when Shaw shifted up to rub up against the dick. It had a great texture that felt very much like the bio kind, and it felt fucking amazing when Shaw pressed herself against its slick length. Root's hips tilted up reflexively and she sucked in a deep breath with Shaw's moves, intense arousal vivid on her face. Their eyes met and held as Shaw slowly sank down on the shaft, her lashes quivering as it filled her entirely. She grinned at the utter abandonment in Root's molten gaze before she wrapped a hand firmly around her neck and began to move. 

Shaw could feel the tension in Root’s body gathering and her hips canting up as she moved rhythmically in Root's lap, grinding the dick firmly against her. The buzz from the vibe reached Shaw along its length, down deep, heightening her pleasure. It wasn’t long before Root’s hands on her butt abruptly squeezed hard, and she sank her teeth into Shaw’s shoulder through her sweater, a long, high-pitched sound leaving her as she came once again. Shaw immediately let her own climax fill her as she ground down on the toy, silent but intense; she only just kept her balance by grabbing harder on Root's neck. Simultaneously gripping Root's shirt and biting down on the other side of her neck was just a bonus. 

* * *

The sex had Shaw feeling loose and warm. There was no awkwardness about pulling her pants on when they were done and preparing to work together again. She was well satiated, pleased with herself, pleased with both of them. 

“I feel good around you.” It surprised her to say it aloud, to make even so small a confession to Root. Or to anyone. 

Root was utterly overwhelmed with delight. Those few words, from Sameen, felt truly monumental in scale. She struggled not to show her reaction too strongly—for once, Root was resolved to keep it low key. It had been an intense twenty-four hours, for them both. 

“I’m glad,” she said simply and traced a gentle thumb along Shaw’s jawline. “I enjoy being around you too, Sameen. Very much.” 

Shaw turned away at that and took a couple of steps closer to the large display to watch the code sequences fly by. “Why did you tell me about some of your kid stuff and the things you did in the past?” 

“You won’t spend time with or trust someone you don’t know.” Root studied Shaw’s erect back as she tucked her shirt back into her jeans. “You’d told me a little, so I told you a little. I hope, one day, that you’ll also tell me a bit more about when you were a kid.” 

“I told you I don’t remember.” Shaw’s tone flattened and her shoulders tensed. “I don’t need to.” 

Root instantly regretted mentioning the topic. There was a bitterly cold sensation at the pit of her stomach from just briefly contemplating the possibilities that could affect Shaw so strongly. 

“Then that’s all there is to it.” Root was careful to keep any hint of concern from her voice. She went over to Shaw and took her shoulders gently from behind. “I’ll only say that I know exactly what it is to remake yourself, Sameen. To distance yourself from what once was.” 

_Although no matter how far or how fast you run, the past always follows just behind you. Until you deal with it._ Root knew that the hard way. She also knew that it wouldn't do any good pursuing that observation with Sameen right now. 

Instead, Root wrapped her arms around Shaw’s waist, satisfied when she rested her hands over Root’s arms. She knew that at the same time, Shaw was studying the display across the room. Knew the instant when she saw it. 

“Son of a bitch, look at the numbers: income, outgoings. They’re too damn close. They’re practically exact.” 

“They are exact,” Root confirmed, and released the woman from her hold, knowing the cop would want to stand clear. “To the cent.” 

“But that’s impossible.” Shaw tried to wrap her head around how that could be. “Nobody spends exactly what they make—not in banking transactions. Everyone carries at least a little cash—for the occasional vendor on the sidewalk, the fizzy machine, the kid who brings the pizza. Sure, it’s mostly electronic, but you’ve got to have some cash floating around.” 

She paused and turned around to glare at Root. “You’d already seen it. Why the hell didn’t you say something?” 

“I thought it would be more fun to wait until we found his cache.” Shaw scowled at her, but Root glanced up as the yellow indicator line for the search progress on the main display halted and changed to green. “And it seems that we have. Hm, he loves tradition, our Simmons. As I guessed, he’s using a discreet Swiss bank. Display account data.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Shaw stared at the account balance in shock. 

“That’s in Swiss francs,” Root explained. “Convert to USD. About triple his tax portfolio here, wouldn’t you say, lieutenant?” 

Shaw’s blood was up. “I knew he was taking. Goddammit, I knew it. And look at the withdrawals, Root, in the last year. Twenty-five thousand a quarter, every quarter. A hundred thousand.” She turned back to Root with a shark-like expression in her dark eyes. “That matches the figure on Claire’s list. Simmons—one hundred K. She was bleeding him.” 

“You may be able to prove it.” 

“I damn well will prove it.” Shaw began to pace. “Claire had something on him. Maybe it was sex, maybe it was graft. Probably a combination of a lot of little things. So he paid her to keep her quiet.” 

She paused to glare at the data again, then continued her prowl. “Maybe she upped the ante. Maybe he was just sick and tired of shelling out a hundred a year for insurance. So he offs her. Somebody keeps trying to scuttle the investigation. Somebody with the power and the information to complicate things. It points right at him.” 

“What about the two other victims?” Root’s voice had a light, curious tone, but Shaw could feel the prod underneath. 

She was working on it. Goddammit, she was working on it. “He used one sex worker. He could have used others. Claire and the third victim knew each other—or of each other. One of them might have known Lola, mentioned her, even suggested her as a change of pace. Hell, she could have been a random choice. He got caught up in the thrill of the first murder. It scared him, but it was also a high for him.” 

She stopped stalking around the room long enough to flick a glance at Root. She’d taken out a joint and lighted it while watching her in fascination, a small smile on her lips. 

“Hallen is one of his backers,” Shaw continued. “And Simmons has come out strongly in favor of Hallen’s upcoming Morals Bill. They’re just prostitutes, in his mindset. Just legal whores, and one of them was threatening him. How much more of a danger to him would she have been once he put in his bid for governor?” 

She stopped pacing again and turned back. “And that’s just shit.” 

“I thought it sounded pretty reasonable.” 

“Not when you look at the individual.” She pressed her fingers between her brows. “He doesn’t have the brains or the strategy for it. Yeah, I think he could kill, but to pull off a series of murders this slick? He worked his way up to the top, sure. He's cunning, slippery. But I bet he got to where he is through favors more than brainpower. He's done favors for the senator—maybe more for the power than the cash. Most likely he had more help getting him to a position where he could do even bigger and better favors. It sure as hell wasn't because he was any good at running the department. So yeah, I can see him kill out of rage or passion. But to plan, and to execute this plan step by step? No. He's too volatile for the control behind these killings. He isn’t even smart enough to juggle his public records well.” 

“So he had help?” 

“It’s possible. Maybe if I put pressure on him, I can find out.” 

“I can help you there, Shaw.” Root inhaled one more time from her slim joint before tamping it out gently with her black-painted fingertips. She gave Shaw an anticipatory, dangerous smile. “What do you think the media would do if it received an anonymous bundle of Simmons’s underground account data?” 

Shaw dropped the hand that had been massaging between her eyes, and her lips curved, just slightly. “They’d hang him. If he knows anything, even with a fleet of lawyers around him, we might be able to shake something loose.” 

“Exactly. It’s your call, lieutenant.” Root’s eyes gleamed at her. 

Shaw clamped down on the _prey in sight_ instinct that had awakened within her and thought hard. She thought of the rules, of due process, of the system she’d made herself an integral part of. She thought of the three dead women. Then she thought of three other women. Who, for now, were still alive. Who all deserved protection from this fucked-up killer. 

Shaw's implacable gaze met Root's. “There’s a reporter. Zoe Morgan. Send it to her." 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw has two major breakthroughs, although not the one she was initially hoping for. A lot of personal and family secrets are revealed; none of them are fun.
> 
> But now, with some secrets revealed, the hunt is up!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Amu_ is Farsi for _paternal uncle_ , but it's used as a general term of respect for any older man.
> 
> Serious content warning for sexual abuse and incest. There are no graphic depictions, but it's also very clear what's going on. The main part of it is between the first and second scene breaks, then there are mentions of similar events later on. If you're sensitive at all to any of that, just skip this chapter for the summary at the end.
> 
> This chapter is very close to the original work, but hopefully the worst part is a little lighter to tread over. Let's just say that I found modifying it a tough job.
> 
> I was very much in two minds about including this character element at all for Shaw. However, it is a very important part of the original character's arc and it has a close echo in the plot. I also felt in the end that it'd be wrong - disrespectful, even, of the original character - to omit it. However, unlike the original character and more like canon Shaw, this Shaw's parents were loving - she unfortunately lost both of them very early. 
> 
> Anyway, that kind of shit happens, way too often still, and there should be no shame for the people affected by it. It's fair enough that it be represented in fiction. I'm personally not fond of past sexual abuse as a 'character motivation' trope, but it is handled quite well in the original book series. That's another reason why it's staying. "Rebuilding yourself" after trauma _is_ a theme I'm fine with.

Shaw decided to not stay the night with Root after they sent Simmons’s financial data to Zoe. She knew a call would come, and it was best if she was at home and alone when it did.

She still felt amped up once she and Bear got back to her apartment. However, with firm discipline, and knowing there would be a busy day ahead, she immediately prepared for bed. Bear gave her a wounded look as Shaw ordered him onto his mattress, but he lay down obediently. She crawled into her own bed and pulled up the comforter for warmth. Shaw didn’t think she would sleep, but she soon drifted off and began to dream.

She dreamed first of murder. Claire, Lola, Georgie, each of them smiling toward the camera. That instant of fear flashing in their eyes before they flew back onto their sheets, the blood spilling out over them.

 _Teacher_. Lola had called the killer Teacher. Shaw had never had any teachers when she was young, only her amu to give her lessons. She never went to school, even though she wished desperately that she could. But amu was the only teacher she’d ever had throughout her grade school years.

Inevitably, the connection made, Shaw’s unconscious mind slid painfully into an older, more tortuous dream.

* * *

She was a well-behaved, obedient little girl. She tried to be good, to not cause trouble. If you caused trouble, the asshole cops came and got you, and put you in a deep, dark hole where a horrible ghost or devil would come and eat you.

She didn’t have friends. If you had friends you had to make up stories about where the bruises came from. How you were clumsy when you weren’t clumsy. How you’d fallen when you hadn’t fallen. Besides, they never lived in one place very long. If you did, the fucking social workers came nosing around, asking questions. It was the fucking social workers who called the stinking asshole cops that put you away in that dark, evil devil hole.

Her amu had taught her about all those things, warned her, told her to always behave. If she didn’t listen to his lessons, wasn’t obedient enough, he punished her. So she was a dutiful, quiet girl, without any friends, who moved from place to place as she was taken. But it didn’t ever seem to make any difference to anything that happened to her.

In the dream, she could hear him now. She always heard him coming, even if she was sound asleep. The creeping scuff of his bare feet on the floor woke her as quickly as a thunder clap.

 _Oh please, oh please._ She would pray, but she wouldn’t cry. If she cried, she was beaten and he did everything anyway. The awful things that eroded her soul, even though from when she was very young, she already knew that she felt things differently to everyone else. Less than everyone, always, and often not at all, except for instincts. But _this_ she felt, what amu did to her, felt as degradation and despair that she could do nothing about. Only endure, like a small wounded animal curled up in its lonely burrow.

He told her it would be okay if she was obedient and nice. Sometimes he had to punish her, but he would make it okay again. The whole time he did his horrible things to her, he kept telling her it would be okay. But she knew nothing would ever be okay again, that there was never going to be any escape from him or from what he did to her.

When she heard the door open this time, she let out a single whimper despite trying to be completely silent. But she wouldn’t fight, not this time, if he didn’t hold her hands down. She wouldn’t cry or make any noises even with the worst things if her hands were free.

His rough voice came from close to where she huddled beneath the blanket “Where’s my little one? Where’s my nice little one?”

Her eyes squeezed shut as his hands grabbed at her body. She could smell his breath on her face, sweet and horrible, like stale candy. She knew what was going to happen next. She couldn’t help the small sound that came out with his hands on her, despite her promises to herself.

“Be quiet,” he rasped. His breathing was rapid, labored: a disgusting sound that she didn’t understand the cause of yet. She only knew it made her feel filthy all over, inside and outside. His fingers dug into her face where bruises would form by morning. “Be quiet now. It’s okay. Make your amu happy. Be nice now.”

He didn’t capture and squeeze her hands together in one of his ham-like ones this time. It was something. The sound of his raspy whispers to her and the rest of his sickening routine faded away from her awareness, swamped by the white noise of the words that filled the inside of her head.

_No-amu-no-amu-no—_

* * *

“ _No!_ ” The word tore out of Shaw’s throat as she bolted uptight in bed. Her clammy skin was covered in gooseflesh and she shook uncontrollably as she tugged the blankets up over her shoulders.

 _Don’t remember. Won’t remember._ She drew up her knees and pressed her forehead against them. Just a dream, and it was already fading. She could will it away—had done so before—until there was nothing left but the faint nausea in its wake.

Still shaky, she got up and pulled her robe over her tank and sleep pants to combat the chill. In the bath, she ran water over her face until she was breathing evenly again. Feeling steadier, she got herself a fizzy and climbed back into bed. Bear had sat up to watch her moving around; as soon as she pulled up the comforter, he hopped onto the bed beside her. She didn’t order him off, but instead scratched between his ears as he poked his face into hers and panted happily. Having achieved his goal, he turned around once and curled up against her thigh, immediately closing his eyes. Shaw rested a hand on his flank, sliding her fingers beneath his fur to feel his steady warmth. She then switched on one of the twenty-four-hour news feeds and settled down to wait.

It was the lead story at six a.m., the headline read by an incisive, sharp-faced Zoe. Shaw was already dressed when the call came through summoning her to Cop Central

* * *

While Shaw had no small amount of personal satisfaction on finding herself part of the team who questioned Simmons, she hid it well. It was enough to savor the triumph at taking the stupid asshole down inside her own head.

In deference to his position, they used the office of Security Administration rather than an interrogation area. The expanse of windows overlooking the city, large glossy table and comfortable chairs didn’t negate the fact that Simmons was in deep trouble. The beading of sweat above his top lip despite his granite-like expression indicated he knew just how deep.

“The media is trying to undermine the department,” Simmons began, using the statement meticulously prepared by his senior aide. “With the very visible failure of the investigation into the brutal deaths of three women, the media is attempting to incite a witch-hunt. As chief of police, I’m an obvious target.”

“Chief Simmons.” Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Commander Elias show anything but the utmost professionalism. “Regardless of the motive, it will be necessary for you to explain the discrepancy in your books.”

Simmons sat frozen while one of his attorneys leaned over and murmured in his ear.

“I have not admitted to any discrepancy. If one exists, I’m unaware of it.”

“Unaware, Chief Simmons, of more than two million dollars?”

“I’ve already contacted my accounting firm. Obviously, if there is a mistake of some nature, it was made by them.”

“Will you confirm or deny that the account listed here is yours?” Elias tapped on the display on the table in front of Simmons.

After another brief consultation, Simmons nodded. “I will confirm that.” To lie would only tighten the noose.

Elias glanced at Shaw. They’d agreed the account was an IRS matter. All they’d wanted was for Simmons to confirm.

Shaw spoke next: “Will you explain, Chief Simmons, the withdrawal of one hundred thousand dollars, in twenty-five thousand dollar increments, every three months during the past year?”

Simmons tugged at the knot of his tie. “I see no reason to explain how I spend my money, Lieutenant Shaw.”

“Then perhaps you can explain how it is those same amounts were listed by Claire Hallen and accredited to you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We have evidence that you paid Claire Hallen one hundred thousand dollars, in twenty-five thousand dollar increments, during a twelve-month period.” Shaw waited a beat. “That’s quite a large amount between casual acquaintances.”

“I have nothing to say on the matter.”

“Was she blackmailing you?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“The evidence says it for you,” Shaw stated. “She was blackmailing you—you were paying her off. I’m sure you’re aware there are only two ways to stop extortion, Chief Simmons. One, you cut off the supply. Two, you eliminate the blackmailer.”

“This is absurd. I didn’t kill Claire. I was paying her like clockwork. I—”

“Chief Simmons.” The most senior lawyer in his team put a hand on Simmons’s arm warningly. He turned his mild gaze to Shaw. “My client has no statement to make regarding Claire Hallen. Obviously, we will cooperate with the Internal Revenue Service’s investigation into my client’s records. At this time, however, no charges have been laid. We’re here only as a courtesy and to show our goodwill.”

“Were you acquainted with a person known as Lola Starr?” Shaw shot out.

“My client has no comment.”

“Did you know the licensed companion Georgie Castle?”

“Same response,” the lawyer said patiently.

“You’ve done everything you could to set roadblocks in the way of this murder investigation from the beginning. Why?”

“Is that a statement of fact, Lieutenant Shaw?” the lawyer asked. “Or an opinion?”

Shaw ignored the lawyer’s bleating and stared Simmons in the eye. “I’ll give you facts. You knew Claire Hallen, intimately. She was hosing you for a hundred grand a year. She’s dead, and someone is leaking confidential information on the investigation. Two more women are dead. All the victims made their living through legal sex work—something you oppose.”

“My opposition to sex work is a political, moral, and personal stance,” Simmons said tightly. “I will support wholeheartedly any legislation that outlaws it. But I would hardly eliminate the problem by picking off prostitutes one at a time.”

“You own a collection of antique weapons,” Shaw persisted.

“I do,” Simmons agreed, ignoring his attorney. “A small, limited collection. All registered, secured, and inventoried. I’ll be more than happy to turn them over to Commander Elias for testing.”

“I appreciate that,” Elias said, shocking Simmons by agreeing. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

Simmons rose, his face stony as he stared down at Elias. “When this matter is cleared up, I won’t forget this meeting.” His eyes cut at Shaw. “I won’t forget who attacked the office of Chief of Police and Security.”

Commander Elias waited until Simmons stormed out, followed by his team of attorneys. “When this is settled, he won’t get within a hundred yards of the office of Chief of Police and Security.”

“I needed more time to work on him. Why’d you let him walk?”

“His isn’t the only name on the Hallen list,” Elias reminded her. “And there’s no tie, as yet, between him and the other two victims. Whittle the list down, get me a tie, and I’ll give you all the time you need.” He paused, scrolling through something on his link, then looked directly at her. “Shaw, you seemed very prepared for this interview. Almost as if you’d been expecting it. I don’t suppose I need remind you that tampering with private documents is against the law.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“I didn’t think I did. Dismissed.”

As she headed for the door, she thought she heard him mutter “Good job” but she might have been mistaken.

She was taking the elevator to her own section when her link blipped. “Shaw.”

“Call for you. Tomas Koroa.”

“I’ll get back to him.”

She snagged a cup of sludge masquerading as coffee and what might have been a donut as she passed through the bullpen area toward her office. She closed the door and brought up the victim data bundles on her link. She studied them once more, meticulously.

She reviewed her notes and made fresh ones. The victim was on the rumpled bed each time. They were naked each time. Their hair was mussed. But as she played back one of the perp vids, Shaw suddenly noticed something new. She ordered the image of Lola Starr to freeze and zoomed into close-up.

“Skin reddened, left thigh,” she muttered out loud. Talking it through with herself helped keep that _observer_ focus. “Missed that before. Spanking? Doesn’t appear to be bruising or welting. Have Finch enhance and determine. Check autopsy report. Switch to Hallen clip.”

Again, Shaw ran it. Claire laughed at the camera and taunted it as she touched herself, shifting. “Freeze image. Quadrant—shit—try sixteen, increase. No marks,” she said. “Continue. Come on, Claire, show me the right side, just in case. Little more. Freeze. Quadrant twelve, increase. No marks on you. Maybe you did the spanking, huh? Run Castle vid. Okay Georgie, let’s see.”

She watched the woman smile, flirt, lift a hand to smooth down her tousled hair. Shaw already knew the dialogue by rote: “ _That was wonderful. You’re terrific._ ”

She was kneeling, sitting back on her haunches, her eyes pleasant and companionable. Silently, Shaw began to urge her to move, just a little, shift over. Then Georgia yawned delicately, turned to fluff the pillows, and Shaw saw the marks on her thigh.

“Freeze. He got you there, didn’t he? Some guys get off on playing bad girl and daddy. Or teacher.”

She had a sudden sharp flash of memory, like a knife through the brain: the intense pain of a heavy hand connecting with the back of her thighs, the labored breathing, the man’s gravelly voice. “ _You have to be punished, little one. Then I’ll be nice and make it all okay._ ”

“Jesus.” She rubbed her cold hands over her face. “Stop. Put it away. Put it away."

She reached for her coffee and found only dregs. The past was past, she reminded herself, and had nothing to do with her. Nothing to do with the job at hand.

“Starr and Castle show marks of abuse on thighs. No marks on Hallen, first in the sequence.” She let out a long slow breath, breathed in another just as slow. It was fine; she was steadier now. “Break in pattern. Apparent emotional reaction during first murder, absent in subsequent two.”

Her link alert sounded with a new call; she ignored it.

“Possible theory: perpetrator gained confidence, enjoyment in subsequent murders. Note: no security footage on second victim, Starr. Time lapse on security cameras at premises of third victim, Castle. Time gap thirty-three minutes less than first victim. Possible theory: more adept, more confident, less inclined to play with victim. Wants the kick faster.”

All good possibilities; her geriatric link also agreed after a seconds-long pause, with a 96.3% probability factor. But something else was clicking as she ran the three vids so closely together and switched between them.

“Split view,” she ordered, “Hallen and Starr, from the beginning.”

Claire’s cat smile and Lola’s pout. Both women looked toward the camera, toward the person behind it. Spoke to them.

“Freeze,” Shaw said in a hoarse whisper so low that the link could barely pick it up. She continued to stare at the images for a long moment. “Jesus Christ. What have we got here?”

It was a small thing, tiny, even. With the viewer’s eye captured by the brutality of the murders, it was easy to miss. But she saw it now, through Claire’s eyes. And through Lola’s.

Lola’s gaze was angled higher.

The height of the beds could account for it. Shaw added Georgie’s image to the screen. Each woman had their head tilted. After all, they were sitting and the killer was very likely standing. But the angle of the eyes, the point at which they stared, combined with the fact that people shooting vids habitually held the device at the same level each time— Only Claire’s was different.

Still watching the screen, Shaw called Dr. Carter. “I don’t care what she’s doing,” Shaw snarled at the receptionist bot. “It’s urgent.”

The bot, impervious, put her on hold and Shaw's ears were assaulted with mindless, sugary music. She let out a disgusted growl and wished passionately that she could virtually punch the crap out of these stupid-ass bots that seemed designed to get in the way rather than actually be useful.

“Question,” she said, once Carter finally appeared

“Yes, lieutenant.”

“Is it possible we have two killers?”

“A copycat? Not likely, Shaw, since most of the methods and style of the murders have been kept under tight lock.”

“Maybe we have a leak. I’ve got breaks in pattern. Small ones, but definite breaks.” She outlined them rapidly to Carter. “Theory, doctor. The first murder committed by someone who knew Claire well, who killed on impulse, but had enough control to clean up thoroughly after. The second two are reflections of the first crime, fined down, more thought through, committed by someone cold, calculating, with no connection to the victims. And, goddammit, they’re taller.”

“It’s a theory. But I gotta say that it’s just as likely, even more so, that all three murders were committed by one individual who grows more calculating with each success. In my professional opinion, no one who wasn’t privy to the first crime, to all the events that took place during it, could have so perfectly mirrored the events in the second two.”

Her link had also ditched the theory while they talked, with a 48.5% likelihood.

“Okay, thanks.” Deflated, Shaw disconnected the call. Stupid to be disappointed. How much worse would it be if she were after two killers instead of one?

Her link blipped for a call again. She growled in annoyance, but took it this time. “Shaw. What?”

“Hey, Lieutenant Hot Cop, a guy might think you didn’t care.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t have time to play, Tomas.”

“Hey, don’t cut me off. I got something for you that might be big.”

“Or for crappy innuendoes—”

“No, really, Shaw. Jesus, flirt with someone once or twice and they never take you seriously again.” His hunky face took on a slightly hurt expression. “You asked me to call if I remembered anything, right?”

“Right.” _Patience_ , she warned herself. She knew what she was like when she was locked on the trail—and that it did no one any good if she lost awareness of everything else. “And, did you?”

“It was the diaries that got me thinking. You know how I said she always took notes on everything? It seemed like they would be important to you. Since you’re looking for them, I figure they weren’t over at her place.”

“You should be a detective.”

“I like my line of work, thanks. Anyhow, I started wondering where she might put them for safekeeping. And then I remembered the safe-deposit box.”

“We’ve already checked it. Thanks, anyway.”

“Oh. So, how’d you get into it without me? She’s dead.”

Shaw paused on the point of cutting him off. “Without you?”

“Yeah. A couple, three years ago, she asked me to sign for one for her. Said she didn’t want her name on the record.”

Shaw’s pulse jumped up a notch. “Then what good would it do her?”

Tomas’s smile was sheepish and charming. “Well, technically, I signed her on as my sister. I’ve got one back in Kansas City. So we listed Claire as Annie Koroa. She paid the rent and I kind of forgot about it. I can’t even say for sure if she kept it, but I thought you might want to know.”

“Where’s the bank?”

“First Manhattan, on Madison.”

“Listen to me, Tomas. You’re home, right?”

“That’s right.”

“You stay there. Right there. I’ll be over in fifteen minutes. We’re going to go banking, you and me.”

“If that’s the best I can do. Hey, did I give you a hot lead, Lieutenant Hot Cop?”

“Just stay put.”

She was up and shrugging into her coat when her link buzzed again. “Shaw.”

“Dispatch, Lieutenant Shaw. We have a call on hold for you. Video blocked, no caller ID. Refuses to identify.”

“Tracing?”

“Tracing now.”

“Then put it through.” She swung up her bag as the audio came on. “This is Shaw.”

“Are you alone?” It was a trembling voice, female.

“Yes. Do you want me to help you?”

“It wasn’t my fault. You have to know it wasn’t my fault.”

“No one’s blaming you.” Her training had Shaw discerning both fear and grief as the caller spoke. “Just tell me what happened.”

“He abused me. I couldn’t stop him. He raped me. He abused her, too. Then he killed her. He could kill me.”

“Tell me where you are.” She studied her screen, waiting for the trace to come through. “I want to help, but I have to know where you are.”

There was the sound of erratic breathing, a sniffle. “He said it was supposed to be a secret, that I couldn’t tell. He killed her so she couldn’t tell. Now there’s only me. No one will believe me.”

“I believe you. I’ll he you. Tell me—” She swore as the transmission broke. “Where?” she demanded after switching to Dispatch.

“Front Royal, Virginia. Number 703-555-3908. Address—”

“I don’t need it. Get me Lieutenant Harold Finch in EDD. Fast.”

Two minutes wasn’t fast enough. Shaw nearly drilled a hole in her forehead by rubbing at it while she waited. “Finch, I’ve got something, and it’s big.”

“What?”

“I can’t go into it yet, but I need you to go pick up Tomas Koroa.”

“Is it him, Shaw?” Finch’s voice was shocked.

“No. Not him. Koroa’s going to take you to Claire’s other safe box. You take good care of him, Finch. We’re going to need him. And you take damn good care of whatever you find in the box.”

“What are you going to be doing?”

“I gotta catch a flight.” Shaw disconnected and immediately called Root. Another three minutes of very precious time crept by before Root appeared and smiled at her playfully.

“How goes your exciting day, sweetie? I was about to call you—it looks like I have to fly to Tokyo. Care to come join me and fill me in?”

Shaw ignored the outrageous flirting. “Root, I need your aircraft, right now. I have to get to Virginia, fast. If I go through channels or take public transport—”

Root’s demeanor instantly became all business. “It’ll be ready for you. Terminal C, Gate 22.”

Shaw closed her eyes. “Thanks. I owe you.”

* * *

Her gratitude lasted until she arrived at the terminal gate and found Root waiting for her.

“I don’t have time to talk.” Shaw’s voice was curt as she strode from the gate toward the elevator.

Root’s long lope easily kept pace with her. “That’s fine, Shaw. We’ll talk on the plane.”

“You’re not going with me. This is official—”

“It’s my aircraft, lieutenant,” Root interrupted smoothly as the elevator closed them in together and it ascended silently.

“Can’t you do anything without strings?”

“Of course. This isn’t one of them, sorry.”

Shaw seethed silently until the elevator arrived at the entryway level. The aircraft hatch was already open and the flight attendant, Diana, waited for them in the entrance.

“Welcome aboard, Root, lieutenant. Can I offer you refreshments?”

“No, thank you. Please have the pilot take off as soon as we’re cleared.” Root took her seat and strapped in while Shaw stood, still fuming. “We can’t take off until you’re seated and secured, sweetie.”

“I thought you had to go to Tokyo.” Shaw decided she could fight with Root just as easily while sitting down. Diana helped her briefly with the harness, then retired to her own seat.

“It’s not a priority. This is.” Root’s face was serious now. “Shaw, before you state your case, let me outline mine. You’re asking me for another favour very soon after the previous one. I’m very happy to help, but, for you, it seems uncharacteristic. You’re going to Virginia in an urgent rush. That points to the Hallen case and some new information. Connie and Graham are friends of mine, close friends. I don’t have many close friends, nor do you. Reverse the situation. What would you do?”

Shaw gave her a hard look as the aircraft launched into the air. “This can’t be personal.”

“Not for you. But for me, it is personal. Connie contacted me even as I was making the arrangements to have the aircraft prepped. She asked me to come.”

“Why?”

“She wouldn’t say. She didn’t have to—she only had to ask.”

Loyalty was a quality that Shaw couldn’t really argue against. “I can’t stop you from going, but I’m warning you that this is departmental business.”

“And the department is in upheaval this morning,” Root said evenly, with only a tiny glint in her eye, “because of certain information leaked to the media ...by an unnamed source.”

Shaw hissed out a breath. Nothing like backing yourself into a corner. “I’m grateful for your help.”

“Enough to tell me what the outcome is?”

“I imagine the embargo will be off by the end of the day.” Shaw shrugged a shoulder and stared out the window, wishing they could go even faster. “Simmons is going to try to ditch the whole business on his accounting firm. I can’t see him pulling it off. The IRS will get him for tax fraud. The internal investigation will most likely uncover where he got the money. Considering Simmons’s imagination, I’d bet on the standard kickbacks, bribes, and graft.”

“And the blackmail?”

“Oh, he was paying her, all right. He admitted as much before his lawyer shut him up. He’ll cop to it once he realizes paying off blackmail is a lot less dicey than accessory to murder.”

She took out her link and buzzed Finch.

“Hello, Shaw.”

“Did you get them?”

Finch raised a small lockbox into view so that she could see it. “All labeled with dates. About twenty years’ worth.”

“Start with the last entry and work back. I should hit destination in about twenty minutes. I’ll contact you as soon as I can for a status report.”

“Hey, Lieutenant Hot Cop.” Tomas edged his way on-screen and grinned at her. “How’d I do?”

“You did good. Thanks. Now, until I say different, forget about the safe box, the diaries, everything.”

“What diaries?” Tomas said with a wink. He blew her a kiss before Finch swiveled the link away from him.

“I’m heading back to Cop Central now, Shaw. Stay in touch.”

“Out.” Shaw ended the call and slipped the link back in her pocket.

Root waited a beat, eyebrows raised. “Lieutenant _Hot Cop_?”

“Shut up, Root.” Shaw reclined her seat a little and closed her eyes, conspicuously ignoring her. But she didn’t bother wiping the smirk off her face.

* * *

When they landed in Winchester, she was forced to admit that Root’s name worked even faster than her badge. In minutes, they were in a powerful rental vehicle with all the extras and speeding to Front Royal. She might have objected to being relegated to the passenger seat, but she couldn’t fault Root’s driving.

“Ever done the Indy?”

“No.” Root spared her a brief glance as they bulleted down the Shenandoah Valley at just under 180 klicks. “But I’ve driven in a few rallies.”

“Figures.” Shaw tapped her fingers against the oh-shit handle when Root shot the vehicle into a vertical rise and skimmed daringly—and illegally—over the top of a small traffic jam. “You say Graham is a good friend. How would you describe him?”

“Intelligent, dedicated, quiet. He rarely speaks unless he has something to say. He’s been pretty overshadowed by his father, but he seems fine with that.”

“How would you describe his relationship with his father?”

Root brought the vehicle down again, the wheels barely bouncing on the road surface. “From the little he might have said, and the things Connie let drop, I’d have to say it’s combative and frustrated.”

“And his relationship with his daughter?”

"Difficult, to say the least. It seemed to him that the superficiality of her lifestyle, her risky behavior and greed in particular, were directly opposed to his values. He’s a great believer in freedom of choice and expression. But there's a difference between an intellectual stance and the ability to understand the choices your adult child makes.” She paused for a moment and added, “He might eventually have become resigned to their differences, but he also thought that she consciously went out of her way to be provocative. That she acted out against the rest of the family in a way that was deliberately cruel at times.”

“Wasn’t he involved in designing his father’s security for the last senatorial campaign?”

Root took the vehicle up again and maneuvered it off the road, muttering something about a shortcut. She was silent while they skimmed through a glade of trees, over a few residential buildings, and down again onto a quiet suburban street.

Shaw, by now, had stopped counting the traffic violations.

“Family loyalty transcends politics,” Root finally said. “At least, that’s how it’s supposed to be. That’s what Graham believed. Someone with the Senator’s views is either well loved or well hated. Graham may disagree with his father, but he’d hardly want him to be assassinated. His professional specialty is security law—it’s natural he’d assist his parent with related matters.”

 _The child protects the parent_. “How far do you think Hallen would go to protect his child?” asked Shaw.

“From what? Graham is a moderate’s moderate. He maintains a low profile so as not to impinge on his father’s. He supports his own causes in a very low-key way. He—” The direction of Shaw’s questioning finally struck her. “Oh, no, Shaw, you’re off target.” Root grimaced, showing the barest hint of teeth as she glanced sideways at Shaw. “Way off target.”

“We’ll see.” Shaw gazed out at the road, expressionless.

* * *

The house on the hill looked peaceful and warm beneath the cold blue sky. A few brave crocuses were beginning to peep out of the snow-damaged grass.

Shaw knew very well that, more often than not, appearances were deceiving. She knew for certain now this particular home wasn’t a refuge of easy wealth, quiet happiness, and tidy lives. That something else had gone on behind those dignified walls.

Connie opened the door herself. If anything, she was paler and more drawn than when Shaw had last seen her. Her eyes were puffy from weeping, and the tailored suit she wore was baggy at the hips from recent weight loss.

“Oh, Root.” Connie went into her arms as if reaching for a life raft. “I’m sorry I dragged you out here. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Don’t be silly.” Root tilted her face up with a gentleness that Shaw felt as almost too intimate to witness, even as she maintained her professional detachment. “Connie, honey, you’re not taking care of yourself.”

“I can’t seem to function, think, or know what to do. Everything’s crumbling away at my feet, and I—” She broke off, remembering abruptly that they weren’t alone. “Lieutenant Shaw.”

Shaw caught the quick accusation in Connie’s eyes when she looked at Root. “She didn’t bring me, Ms. Wyler. I brought her. I received a direct call to my link this morning from this location. Did you make it?”

“No.” Connie stepped back. Her hands reached for each other and twisted together. “No, I didn’t. It must have been Catherine. She suddenly arrived here last night, with absolutely no warning. Completely distraught and inconsolable. Her and Graham’s mother has been hospitalized and the prognosis is poor. I can only think that all the stress of the last few weeks has finally become too much. That’s why I called you, Root. Graham’s at his wits’ end. I’m not any help. We needed someone.”

“Why don’t we go in and sit down?”

“They’re in the parlor.” Connie turned to look nervously down the hall. “She won’t take a sedative, she won’t explain what’s going on. She refused to let us do more than call her spouse and child, and tell them she was here and that they were not to come. She’s frantic at the idea they might be in some sort of danger. I suppose what happened to Claire has made her more scared for her own child. She’s obsessed with saving him from God knows what.”

“If she called me,” Shaw put in, “then maybe she’ll talk to me.”

“Yes. Yes, all right.”

She led the way down the hall and into the sunny parlor. Catherine Hallen sat on a sofa, wrapped in her brother’s arms. Shaw couldn’t be sure if he was comforting her, or restraining her.

Graham raised desperate eyes to Root’s. “It’s good of you to come. We’re a mess, Root.” His voice shook and nearly broke. “We’re a mess.”

“Connie,” Root said, turning her head briefly toward her as she crouched in front of Catherine. “I think we would all appreciate a coffee, if that’s okay?”

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry.”

“Catherine.” Root’s eyes were compassionate and her voice was low, as was the hand she laid on her arm. But the touch had Catherine jerking up, her eyes going wide.

“Don’t. What—what are you doing here?”

“I came to see Connie and Graham. I’m sorry you’re not well.”

“Well?” She gave what might have been a laugh as she curled into herself. “None of us will ever be well again. How can we? We’re all tainted. We’re all to blame.”

“For what?”

She shook her head and huddled back into the far corner of the sofa. “I can’t talk to you.”

Shaw approached from behind Root as she rose quietly and moved to sit near Catherine on the sofa, not touching her. “Congresswoman Hallen, I’m Lieutenant Shaw. You called me a little while ago.”

“No, no I didn’t.” With a panicky expression, Catherine wrapped her arms tightly around her chest. “I didn’t call. I didn’t say anything.”

As Graham leaned over to touch her, Shaw shot him a warning glance. Deliberately, she put herself between them, then sat and took Catherine’s frigid hand. “You wanted me to help. I’m here—I’ll help you.”

“You can’t. No one can. I was wrong to call. We have to keep it in the family. I have a spouse, I have a little child.” Tears began to swim in her eyes, “I have to protect them. I have to leave, go far away, so that I can protect them.”

“We will protect them,” Shaw said quietly. “We’ll protect you. It was too late to protect Claire. You can’t blame yourself.”

“I didn’t try to stop it,” Catherine said in a whisper. “Maybe I was even glad, because it wasn’t me anymore. It wasn’t me.”

“Ms. Hallen, I can help you. I can protect you and your family. Tell me who abused you.”

Graham uttered a shocked sound. “My God, what are you saying? What—”

Shaw turned on him, her eyes fierce. “Be quiet. There are no more secrets here.”

“Secrets,” Catherine said with trembling lips. “It has to be a secret.”

“No, it doesn’t. This kind of secret hurts. It gets inside and eats at you. It makes you scared and it makes you guilty. The ones who want this secret to be kept secret use those things—the guilt, the fear, the shame. The best way you can fight back now is to tell. Tell me who harmed you.”

Catherine’s breath shuddered out. She looked at her brother, terror bright in her eyes.

“Catherine.” Her eyes swung back and were held by Shaw’s intense gaze. “Look at me. Only at me. Tell me who abused you, harmed you. Who harmed Claire?”

“My father.” The words burst from her in a howl of pain. “My father. _My father_.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

“Oh _God_.” Across the room, Connie recoiled backward, right into the server droid that had silently entered the room. China shattered on the floor and dark coffee seeped into the lovely rug. “Oh my God. My baby.”

Graham shot off the couch and reached Connie as she swayed. He caught her hard against him. “I’ll kill him for this. I’ll kill him.” He pressed his face into her hair, and the tears ran down his face as they clung onto each other. “Connie. Oh Jesus, Connie.”

“Do what you can for them,” Shaw murmured to Root as she moved to place an arm around Catherine’s shaking shoulders.

“You thought it was Graham,” Root said in an undertone.

“Yes.” Shaw’s eyes were unreadable when they met Root’s. “I thought it was Claire’s father. Maybe I didn’t want to believe that something so foul could cross two generations.”

Root leaned close to Shaw, her gaze now almost inhuman, merciless. Her voice, however, was low and measured when she spoke: “One way or the other, Hallen is a dead man.”

“Help your friends,” Shaw said evenly, as she glanced over at where Connie and Graham stood weeping together. “I have work to do here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary:
> 
> Due to something Root said earlier that evening in combination with the events of this case, Shaw has a horribly traumatic dream about her past, when she was abused as a child. Echoes of it return to her during the day as she works, but she manages to put it away and do her job. 
> 
> Chief Simmons admits to being blackmailed but denies any involvement with Claire's murder. Shaw finds some odd breaks in pattern between Claire's and the next two murders, and wonders whether there is a different perpetrator for the later killings. However, Carter advises her that a copycat couldn't so meticulously reproduce elements of the first murder in the subsequent ones without being directly involved.
> 
> With Tomas's help, they finally find Claire's diaries, but Shaw doesn't have a chance to examine them. She leaves them with Finch to analyse, because she has to race off to Virginia when she receives a mystery phone call from Claire's parents' house. Claire's parents have coincidentally asked for Root's help, so she invites herself along - to Shaw's vast annoyance, of course - when Shaw asks to borrow her aircraft to get there quickly. 
> 
> They arrive to find that Sen. Hallen's daughter, Catherine, had arrived unexpectedly and obviously traumatised the night before, fearful for her child's safety. Eventually, she breaks down and admits the senator had sexually assaulted her as a child, and subsequently had abused his grandchild, Claire. Catherine had kept it secret, including that she knew what was happening to Claire. Shaw had suspected something like this, but had originally thought it was Claire's father, Graham, who had perpetrated the abuse. She didn't think that something so awful could be perpetuated across multiple generations.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw learns more about the goings-on in Senator Hallen's family, and gets to perform a very satisfying arrest. Although not without consequences to her. She finally feels comfortable enough to reveal more about her past to Root.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More CW for mentions of sexual abuse, etc. Nothing graphic, though. The arrest scene is where abuse isn't mentioned at all - between scene breaks 2 and 3. Full summary at the end.

Shaw let Catherine cry it out, though she knew that tears wouldn’t stop the pain. She knew, too, that she wouldn’t have been able to handle the situation alone. There were limits to the amount of empathy she could bring to bear at these times: for that, the victim was her priority.

It was Root who calmed Connie and Graham, who ordered in the domestic droid to gather up the broken crockery, and who held their hands when they wept. By and by, when she gauged the time was right, it was she who gently suggested bringing Catherine some tea.

Connie fetched it herself, carefully closing the parlor doors behind her before she carried the cup to her sister-in-law. “Here, darling, drink a little.”

“I’m sorry.” Catherine put both shaky hands around the cup to warm them. “I’m so sorry. I thought it had stopped. I made myself believe it had stopped. I couldn’t live otherwise.”

“It’s all right.” Her face empty of expression, Connie seated herself next to Graham.

“Ms. Hallen, I need you to tell me to tell me about the abuse. Congresswoman Hallen?” Shaw waited until Catherine focused on her again. “Do you understand this is being recorded?”

“He’ll stop you.”

“No, he won’t. That’s why you called me, because you know I’ll stop him.”

“He’s afraid of you,” Catherine whispered. “I could tell. He hates women, that’s why he hurts us. I think he may have given something to my mother. Broke her mind. She knew.”

“Your mother knew your father was abusing you?”

“She knew. She pretended she didn’t, but I could see it in her eyes. She didn’t want to know—she just wanted everything quiet and perfect, so she could give her parties and be the senator’s wife.” She lifted a hand, shielding her eyes. “When he would come into my room at night, I could see it on her face the next morning. But when I tried to talk to her, to tell her to make him stop, she pretended she didn’t know what I meant. She told me to stop imagining things. To be good, to respect the family.”

She lowered her hand again, cupped her tea with both hands, but didn’t drink. “When I was little, seven or eight, he would come in at night and say we were going to play grown-up Pretend. It was a secret game, he said. He told me I had to do things, to—”

“It’s all right,” Shaw said quietly as Catherine began to tremble violently. “You don’t have to talk about everything here and now. Tell me what you can.”

“You had to obey him. You had to. He was a force in our house. Graham?”

“Yes.” Graham caught his wife’s hand in his and squeezed it hard, his knuckles standing out white. “I know.”

“I couldn’t tell you because I was ashamed and afraid, and Mom just looked away, so I thought I had to do it.” She swallowed hard. “On my twelfth birthday, we had a party. Lots of friends, and a big cake, and the ponies. You remember the ponies, Graham?”

“I remember.” Tears tracked silently down his cheeks. “I remember.”

“And that night, the night of my birthday, he came. He said I was old enough now. He said he had a present for me, a special present because I was growing up.” She buried her face in her hands and rocked. "He said it was a present. Oh God. And I begged him to stop, but he…did it. Did everything. Because I was old enough to know it was wrong, I knew what we did was wicked. That I was wicked. But he didn’t stop. He kept coming back, for all those years, until I could get away. I went to college, far away, where he couldn’t touch me. And I told myself that it never happened. It never, never happened.

“I tried to be strong, to make a life. I got married because I thought I would be safe. Justin was so kind, so gentle. He never hurt me. And I never told him. I thought if he knew, he’d despise me. So I kept telling myself it never happened.”

She lowered her hands and looked at Shaw. “I believed it, sometimes. Most of the time. I could lose myself in my work, in my family. But then I could see, I knew he was doing the same thing to Claire. I wanted to help, but I didn’t know how. So I pushed it away, just like my mother did. He killed her. Now he’ll kill me.”

“Why do you think he killed Claire?”

“She wasn’t weak like me. She turned it on him, used it against him. I heard them arguing on Christmas Day. When we all went to his house—the 'we’re a real family' pretense. I saw them go into his office, and I followed. I opened the door, and watched and listened through the crack. He was furious with her because she was making a public mockery of everything he stood for. And she said, ‘You made me what I am, you bastard.’ It warmed me to hear that. I wanted to cheer. She threatened to expose him unless he paid her. She had it all documented, she said, every dirty little detail. So he’d have to play the game her way. They fought, screaming at each other. And then…”

Catherine glanced over at Connie and at her brother, then looked away. “She took off her blouse.” Connie’s anguished sound had Catherine trembling again. “She told him he could have her, just like any client. But he’d pay more, a lot more. He was looking at her with his eyes glazed over, and he grabbed her. Then she looked at me, over his shoulder. Right at me. She’d known I was there, and she looked at me with such contempt. Maybe even hatred, because she knew I’d do nothing. I closed the door and ran. I was sick. Oh, Graham, Connie.”

Connie looked up at Catherine with ravaged eyes. “It’s not your fault. She must have tried to tell me. I never saw, I never heard. I never thought. I was her mother, and I didn’t protect her.”

Graham only shook his head, the tears rolling silently down his cheeks.

“I tried to talk to her.” Catherine gripped her hands together. "When I went to New York for the fundraiser. She said I’d chosen my way, and she’d chosen hers. Her way was better. I played politics and kept my head buried, and she played with power and kept her eyes open.

“When I heard she was dead, I knew. At the funeral I watched him, and he watched me watching him. He came up to me, put his arms around me, held me close as if in comfort. He whispered to me to pay attention. To remember, and to see what happened when families don’t keep secrets. He said what a fine kid Franklin was. What big plans he had for him, how proud I should be. But I had to always be careful, tragedy can strike at any time.” She closed her eyes. “What could I do? He’s my child.”

“No one’s going to hurt him.” Shaw gave her a firm nod. “I promise you.”

“I’ll never know if I could have saved her. Your own child, Graham.”

“You can know you’re doing everything possible now.” Shaw briefly laid a hand on her arm. “It’s going to be difficult for you, Ms. Hallen, to go over all of this again, as you’ll have to. To face the publicity and testify, should it come to trial.”

“He’ll never let it go to trial,” Catherine said wearily.

“I’m not going to give him a choice.” _Maybe not on murder. Not yet. But I’ve got the fucker cold on child sexual assault and incest._ “Ms. Wyler, I think your sister-in-law should rest now. Could you help her upstairs?”

“Yes, of course.” Connie rose and walked over to help Catherine to her feet. “Let’s go lie down for a bit, darling.” 

“I’m sorry.” Catherine leaned heavily against Connie as she was led from the room. “God forgive me, I’m so sorry.” 

“There’s a psychiatric counselor attached to the department, Mr. Hallen. I think your sister should see her.”

“Yes.” He said it absently, staring at the closed door. “She’ll need someone. Some help.”

All of would them need some help. “Are you up to a few questions?” Shaw asked.

“I don’t know. My father is a tyrant, a difficult man. But this makes him a monster. How am I to accept that my own father is a monster?”

“He has an alibi for the night of your daughter’s death,” Shaw said. “I can’t charge him without more.”

“An alibi?”

“The record shows that Bannerman was with your father, working with him in his East Washington office until nearly two on the night of your daughter’s death.”

“Bannerman would say whatever my father told him to say.”

“Including covering up murder?”

“It’s simply a matter of the easiest way out. Why should anyone believe my father is connected?” He shuddered once, as if from a sudden chill. “Bannerman’s statement merely detaches his employer from any suspicion.”

“How would your father travel back and forth to New York from East Washington if he wanted no record of the trip?” 

“I don’t know. If his shuttle went out, there would be a log.”

“Logs can be altered,” Root put in.

“Yes.” Graham looked up at her as if remembering all at once that she was there. “You’d know more about that than I would.”

“He’s talking about my smuggling days,” Root explained to Shaw. “Long behind me. It can be done, but it would require some payoffs. The pilot, perhaps the mechanic, certainly the air engineer.”

“So I know where to put the pressure on.” And if Shaw could prove Hallen’s shuttle had taken the trip on that night, she’d have probable cause. Enough to break him. “How much do you know about your father’s weapons collection?”

“More than I care to.” Graham rose on unsteady legs. He went to a cabinet, splashed liquor into a glass, and drank it down like medicine. “He enjoys his guns and likes showing them off. When I was younger, he tried to interest me in them. Root can tell you that it didn’t work.”

Her mouth quirked, just a tiny bit. “Graham believes guns are a dangerous symbol of power abuse. And I can tell you that, yes, Hallen occasionally used the black market.”

“Why didn’t you mention that before?” Shaw asked curtly.

“You didn’t ask.”

Shaw was annoyed, but let it drop. For now. “Does your father have a knowledge of security—the technical aspects?” she asked Graham. 

“Certainly. He takes pride in knowing how to protect himself. It’s one of the few things we can discuss without disagreeing.”

“Would you consider him an expert?”

“No,” Graham said slowly. “A knowledgeable amateur.”

“His relationship with Chief Simmons? How would you describe it?”

“Self-serving. He considered Simmons a fool. My father loves to exploit fools.” Abruptly, he sank into a chair. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I need some time. I need to be with my wife.”

“I understand. Mr. Hallen, I’m going to order surveillance on your father. You won’t be able to reach him without being monitored. Please don’t try.”

“You think I’ll try to kill him?” Graham gave a bitter laugh and stared down at his own hands. “I want to. For what he did to my daughter, to my sister, to our lives. But I don’t have the guts.”

* * *

When they were outside again, Shaw stomped straight over to their vehicle without looking at Root. “You suspected this?”

“That Hallen was involved? Yes, I did.”

“But you didn’t tell me.”

“No.” Root laid a hand on Shaw’s back before she could wrench open the vehicle door. “It was a feeling, Shaw. I had no idea about Catherine. Absolutely none. I did suspect that something strange was going on between Claire and Hallen.” 

“That’s a nice way of putting it,” Shaw bit off.

“I suspected it,” Root continued quietly, “because of the way Claire spoke about him during our single dinner together. But it was a vague feeling, not a fact. It would have done nothing to help build your case. Yes,” she added, turning Shaw to face her, “as I got to know you better, I still kept that feeling to myself. Because, I’m sorry, I thought you already had enough to deal with outside your job.”

Shaw gave her a fulminating look.

“Sameen, there are emotions that you don’t experience the same way as most of us. It’s what makes you exactly who you are. But even when I barely knew you, it was obvious that this case, right after that child murder, had you very near the edge. Uncharacteristically so. After today’s events, I’m almost certain now that you’ve had to endure something like what’s happened here.”

“It isn’t about me.” But Shaw compressed her lips and closed her eyes briefly. “I can’t think about it, Root. I’ll mess up if I do, and if I mess up, he could get away with it. With the abuse and murder of children he should have been protecting. I won’t let that happen.”

“Didn’t you say to Catherine that the only way to fight back was to tell?”

“I have work to do.” Shaw’s face was expressionless now.

Root lifted her gaze heavenward and gave her head a shake. She willed herself to let the frustration go. “I assume you’ll want to go to the Washington airport where Hallen keeps his shuttle.”

“Yes.” Shaw got in the vehicle as Root walked around to get in the driver’s side. “You can drop me at the nearest transport station.”

“I’m sticking, Shaw. I’ll order my aircraft to make the hop from Winchester to Washington.”

“All right, fine. I need to check in.”

As Root drove down the winding lane, Shaw called Finch. “I’ve got something hot here,” she said before he could speak. “I’m on my way to East Washington.”

“We’ve got something very interesting here as well.” Finch’s face and voice were animated. “I didn’t have to look farther than her final entry, Shaw. It was written the morning of her murder. I have no idea why she took the diary to the bank that day, but it’s very fortunate for us. She had a date booked at midnight. You’ll never guess who.”

“Her grandfather.”

Finch looked taken aback. “How did you find that out?”

Shaw closed her eyes briefly. “Tell me it’s documented, Finch. Tell me she names him.”

“She calls him the senator—or her ‘old fart of a grand-daddy’. That’s clear enough. And she writes with some glee about the five thousand she charged him for each, um, session. Quote: ‘It’s almost worth letting him slobber all over me, the bastard. I sure as hell give him his money’s worth. I’m not a stupid little kid any more. I know how to keep him on a tight leash. I get to use HIM. The tables are TURNED, bitch grand-daddy. It’s starting to get old, though. I’ll send these diaries to the media soon. Revealing his sordid little game will be the perfect final revenge, and my personal profile will go stratospheric. There’ll be media ops galore when it all hits the feeds—I can’t wait. It drives the old fart crazy whenever I threaten the Big Reveal. Maybe I’ll have some fun and twist the knife a little more tonight. Screw weakass therapy. Who needs it when you’ve taken control and can make the old goat squirm whenever you feel like it.’”

Finch shook his head when he finished reading. “It had gone on a very long time, Shaw. I’ve gone back through several entries. She earned a nice income from blackmail, and she names names and activities. But this last entry puts the senator at her place on the night of her death.”

“Can you get me a warrant?”

“Commander’s orders were to send it through the minute you called in. He says to pick Hallen up. Murder One, three counts.”

She let out a slow breath. “Where do I find him?”

“He’s at the Senate building, delivering a speech on his Morals Bill.”

“Fucking perfect. I’m on my way.” She ended the call and turned to Root, who gave her a feral grin, having heard everything. “How much faster can this thing go?”

“We’ll find out, lieutenant.”

* * *

If Elias’s specific orders instructing her to be discreet hadn’t come through with the warrant, Shaw would have marched straight onto the Senate floor while it was in session and cuffed Hallen right in front of his associates. Still, there was considerable satisfaction in the way it went down.

She contacted the Capitol Police Service and transmitted a copy of the warrant. They duly sent two of their officers to meet her and Root at the main doors to the Senate chamber.

She waited while Hallen completed his impassioned speech on the moral decline of the nation, the insidious corruption that stemmed from promiscuity, conception control, genetic engineering, sexual minorities. Our one nation under God had become godless. Our constitutional right to bear arms had been obliterated by the liberal left. Society had gone to hell, according to the senator, due to “our increasing moral decline, our softness on criminals, our indulgence in sexual freedom without responsibility”.

It made Shaw sick to listen to his bullshit. “In the year 2046,” she said softly, “at the end of the Urban Revolt, before the gun ban, there were over ten thousand deaths and injuries from guns in the borough of Manhattan alone.”

She continued to watch Hallen sell his snake oil while Root laid a gentle hand at the base of her spine. “Before sex work was decriminalized, SWs, particularly on the street, were at high risk of violent crime, including sexual assault, Now, LCs, any sex worker, can report any crime without fear of being locked up themselves. Crimes against them now have dropped through the floor. People no longer have to resort to butchers to deal with unwanted pregnancies, risking their lives or exposure. Queers are full members of society now, not criminal freaks. And all the rest. I know I’m preaching to the choir, Root, and it’s still not a perfect world. But listening to that hypocritical fucker makes you realize it could be a hell of a lot worse.”

“Absolutely,” Root agreed. “What do you think the media will do to him when this hits?”

“Crucify him,” Shaw muttered. “I hope to hell it doesn’t make him a martyr.”

“The so-called ‘voice of the moral right’ fraternizing with the sex workers he rants about might be one thing. But I don’t think he can spin the charges of incest, sexual assault and homicide into ‘I made a mistake’ and nor can his loyal followers. We’ll see how he deals with the exposure and public shame. I bet the shame will be worse for him than the trial, than any other punishment. He’s finished, I think.” Root nodded in his direction. “In more ways than one.” 

Shaw heard the loud applause from the gallery. From the sound of it, Hallen’s team had been careful to scatter some of their own among the spectators. The gavel was struck and an hour’s recess was called.

 _Discretion be damned_. Shaw strode through the milling staffers and pages until she stood in front of Hallen. He was being congratulated on his rabble-rousing speech, with a lot of back-slapping and hand-shaking by his senatorial supporters.

She waited until he saw her. His gaze shifted briefly to Root standing right behind her, and his mouth tightened. “Lieutenant. If you need to speak with me, we can adjourn briefly to my office. Alone. I can spare ten minutes.”

“You’re going to have plenty of time, senator. Senator Jim Hallen, you’re under arrest for the murders of Claire Hallen, Lola Starr, and Georgie Castle.” As he blustered in protest and the whispers began, she lifted her voice. “Additional charges include the incestuous sexual assaults of Catherine Hallen, your daughter, and of Claire Hallen, your granddaughter.”

He was still standing frozen in shock when she slapped the restraints over his wrist, spun him around, and secured his hands behind his back. “You are under no obligation to make a statement.”

“This is an outrage!” he exploded over the standard recitation of the Revised Miranda. “I’m a senator of the United States—this is federal property!”

“And these USCP officers will escort you,” she added, turning him to face them. “You are entitled to an attorney or representative.” As she continued to recite his rights, she gave a hard glare all around that had the federal deputies and onlookers backing off. “Do you understand these rights?”

“I’ll have your badge, bitch.” He began to wheeze as she muscled him through the crowd.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Catch your breath, senator. We can’t have you popping off with a cardiac arrest” She leaned closer to his ear. “And you won’t have my badge, _bitch_. I’m going to have your ass.” She shoved him at the USCP cops, who firmly took each of his arms. “They’re waiting for him in New York.”

She could hardly be heard now. Hallen was screaming, demanding immediate release. The Senate had erupted with voices and bodies. Through the chaos, she spotted Bannerman. He barrelled toward her, his face a cold mask of fury.

“You’re making a serious mistake, lieutenant.”

“No, I’m not. But you made one in your statement. The way I see it, that’s going to make you accessory after the fact. I’m going to start working on that when I get back to New York.”

“Senator Hallen is a great man. You’re nothing but a pawn for the Liberal Party and their plans to destroy him.”

“Senator Hallen is an incestuous child abuser and a murderer. And what I am, pal, is the cop who’s taking him down. You’d better call a lawyer unless you want to go down with him.”

Root had to force herself not to grab Shaw in glee as she marched through the hallowed Senate halls. Members of the media were already leaping toward her, but she cut through them as if they weren’t there.

“I like your moves, Lieutenant Shaw,” Root said with a goofy smile on her face, once they’d fought their way to the vehicle, and the opaque windows shielded them from the media drones. “I like them a lot.”

Shaw swallowed hard on the nausea rising in her throat. “Let’s get the hell away from this shithole.”

Sheer force of will kept her steady until they got to the aircraft. It kept her voice flat and expressionless as she reported to Elias. Then she stumbled, and, shoving away from Root’s attempt to reach for her, she rushed into the head to be wretchedly and violently ill.

On the other side of the door, Root stood helplessly. If she had any understanding at all of how Shaw operated, she knew that attempting to comfort her would make it worse. Instead, she gave some instructions to Diana the flight attendant, and took her seat. While she waited, she stared out at the tarmac and tapped her fingers one by one on her armrest.

She looked up when the door opened. Shaw was parchment-colored and her eyes were huge, dark-shadowed in her face. Her usually smooth movement was awkward and stiff. She strapped herself into her seat and said in a monotone, “Sorry. I guess it got to me. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Diana brought Shaw a glass of icy water, which she drank down in relief as Root spoke to the pilot. They were aloft within a couple of minutes, and Root immediately unbuckled herself and Shaw as soon as they reached cruising level. She drew Shaw over to one of the comfortable couches and sat down beside her. Diana promptly placed a tray with couple of steaming mugs on the low table in front of them.

Root handed a mug to Shaw. “Drink this, sweetie. It’ll help.”

“What is it?”

“It’s sweet hot tea, with a shot of whiskey.”

“I’m on duty,” she began, but Root frowned.

“For just this once, please, Sameen, could you do something for me outside the bedroom?” She took a long drink from her own mug, her eyes steady on Shaw’s, and waited.

Telling herself she might as well drink some to avoid pouting, or worse, Root looking at her with a sad face, Shaw lifted the mug to her lips. It didn’t taste as disgusting as she’d feared. Sweet, milky, with the spicy tang of whiskey underneath, it went down warm into her stomach, helping the chill a little.

She couldn’t drink much. She still felt a little dizzy and her head pounded ferociously.

“My uncle, my amu, abused me.” She heard herself say it. The shock of it, of hearing herself say the words out loud, made her voice quiver for a split second. “Sexually. Repeatedly. And he beat me, repeatedly. If I fought or I didn’t fight, it didn’t matter. He still abused me. He still beat me. And there was nothing I could do. There’s nothing you can do when the people who are supposed to take care of you abuse you that way. Use you and hurt you.”

“Sameen.” Root took her hand then. Shaw looked down at it, but didn’t pull hers away. “I’m sorry.”

“They said I was around age ten when they found me, in some alley in Dallas. I was bleeding and my arm was broken. He must have dumped me there. I don’t know. Maybe I ran away. I don’t remember. But he never came for me. No one ever came for me.”

Root gently let go of her hand and picked up her mug to take another long sip, then replaced it on the tray. She settled back a little closer to Shaw, their shoulders just touching. “Your parents? Your mother and father?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember him. I barely remember her. Maybe she’s dead. Maybe she was like Catherine’s mother, or worse, maybe she gave me to amu. I don’t even know if he’s my actual uncle, although he spoke some Farsi with me. I only get flashes, a few memories of my mother, nightmares about the worst of it. I don’t know my last name. They weren’t able to identify me.”

“But you were free of him, then.”

“Yeah. That much at least. You never went through the foster system?” She raised an eyebrow at Root, who shook her head, her mouth pinched. “There’s no feeling of complete safety. Only powerlessness. They strip you bare with supposed ‘good intentions’.” She let her head fall back and her eyes close. She said, with quiet intensity: “I didn’t want to arrest Hallen, Root. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to kill him with my own two hands, beat him into raw meat, because of what happened to me. I let it get personal.”

“You did your job, Shaw. A good job.”

“Yeah. I did my job. And I’ll keep doing it.”

But it wasn’t the job she was thinking of now. It was life. Hers and Root's, however they were going to be entangled together. “Root, you’ve got to know I’ve got some bad shit inside. It’s like a virus sneaking around your system that pops out when your resistance is low. I’m not a good bet.”

“I know all about viruses infecting systems, all about bad code. I had plenty inside infecting me. Some of it I’ve fixed. Some of it, as you know, it’s still sneaking around in there.” Root took her hand again, to lift it to her lips and kiss it, her eyes warm. “We’re both winning so far. We’ll have to see how long we can keep it up.”

“I’ve never told anybody before. The shrink got it out of me, but you’re the first I’ve just told.”

“Did it help?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Fuck, I’m so tired.”

“You could lean on me, Sameen.” Root slipped an arm around her and Shaw let her head rest in the curve of her shoulder.

“For a little while,” she muttered. “Until we get to New York.”

“For a little while, then.” Root gently kissed her forehead and hoped that she would sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary:
> 
> Shaw hears more of Catherine's story of her abuse by Hallen and how she discovered that Claire had also been abused by him. She overheard adult Claire make an arrangement with Hallen, charging him for regular 'dates'.
> 
> As they leave, Shaw confronts Root with the fact she suspected that Hallen had abused Claire and there was something going on between them even recently. Root admits that she did suspect that, but she didn't want to mention it to Shaw, because she didn't think her suspicion was enough to help the case. And that she thought it'd be more of a burden to Shaw because of what Root suspects about _her_ past. Shaw chooses not to say anything further at that time.
> 
> They drive off and Shaw calls Finch, who tells them he found the same info in Claire's diaries, and that they had one she'd written on the same day as her death, describing the appointment he had with her grandfather that night. It also detailed more of their "arrangement" and that Claire was threatening to go to the media about the whole thing. Finch sends through a warrant to arrest Hallen for the three murders.
> 
> They speed to the Capitol, where Hallen is giving a speech on the moral decline of the nation, and Shaw has great delight in arresting him right outside the Senate chambers.
> 
> Immediately after, the stress finally hits her and she's sick when they get back to Root's aircraft. She finally reveals the whole story of her abuse by her uncle/amu, and that she has very few memories of her parents, and no knowledge of their names or her last name. She was found abandoned in some alleyway in Dallas, injured and with a broken arm, not knowing how she got there. No relative ever came for her. She had a rough time in the foster system and with the associated powerlessness there as well. She warns Root that's she's got bad stuff inside, and she's not a good bet.
> 
> Root is a good listener and is able to give Shaw a little comfort, pointing out that while they've both got "bad code" in them, they've both successfully made it this far.
> 
> * * *
> 
> We're getting close to the end, and I'm sorry to say we don't have any more spicy-type fun coming up. However, we have a very exciting next chapter. Then there's going to be one more little chapter, where Shaw's feeling a little goofy and says a bunch of things that she wouldn't ordinarily. It's a trope, but what can you do? It's nothing more than what we know she's thinking anyway, ha.
> 
> Anyway, I hope Shaw's reactions haven't been too OOC with all this trauma stuff (and won't be for the next chapters); she's still a BAMF.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw interviews Hallen and tries to get his confession. 
> 
> Then she is embroiled in a dangerous confrontation in which some additional facts are revealed, but now her life is at serious risk.

Hallen refused to talk. His lawyers put the muzzle on him early, and they put in on tight. The interrogation process was slow and tedious. There were times when Shaw thought he would burst, when the temper that reddened his face would finally tip the scales in her favor. But so far, with the assistance of his weasel lawyer, he’d managed to hold it in, much to Shaw’s annoyance.

She didn't give a shit now about it being personal to her. She was going to see to it that he got the justice he had avoided for so many years. She didn’t want a complicated, media-infested, drawn-out trial. She wanted a confession, and she would work the asshole until she got one.

She let the contempt show on her face as she resumed her questions. “You were engaged in an incestuous affair with your granddaughter, Claire Hallen.”

“My client has not confirmed those allegations.”

Shaw ignored the lawyer and watched Hallen’s face. “I have here a transcript of an extract of Claire Hallen’s diary, dated on the day of her murder.” She brought it up on the table display.

Hallen’s lawyer, a trim, tidy man with a neat sandy beard and mild blue eyes studied it with apparent indifference.

“This proves nothing, lieutenant, as I’m sure you know. It’s merely a destructive fantasy of a murdered woman. A woman of dubious reputation and stability who had long been estranged from her family.”

“There’s a pattern here, Senator Hallen.” Shaw stubbornly continued to address the accused rather his trained monkey. “You sexually abused your daughter, Catherine.”

“Preposterous,” Hallen blurted out before his attorney lifted a hand to silence him.

“I have a statement, signed and verified before witnesses, from Congresswoman Catherine Hallen.” Shaw cued it up.

The lawyer read it and sighed, as if in regret. “You may not be aware, lieutenant, that there is an unfortunate history of mental disorder in the family. Senator Hallen’s wife is even now under observation for a breakdown.”

“We are aware.” She spared the lawyer a brief glance. “We will be investigating her condition and its cause.”

“Congresswoman Hallen has also been treated for symptoms of depression, paranoia, and stress,” the lawyer continued in the same faux-sad tone.

“If she has been, Senator Hallen, we’ll no doubt find that the underlying root of those problems is the systematic and sustained sexual and emotional abuse of her as a child." She tried another tack. "You were in New York on the night of Claire Hallen’s murder. Not, as you previously claimed, in East Washington.”

Before the lawyer could interrupt her, she leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Hallen’s face. “Let me tell you how it went down. You took your private shuttle, after paying the pilot and the flight engineer to doctor the log. You went to Claire’s apartment, had sex with her, and recorded it for your own sick purposes. You took a weapon with you, an antique .38 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver. Then, because she taunted and threatened you, because you were too spineless to handle the stress of potential exposure any longer, you shot her. You brutally shot her three times.”

She kept the words coming fast, kept her face close to his. She could smell his nervous sweat and her lip lifted slightly in satisfaction. He was on the run. “The last shot was pretty clever. Messed up any chance for us to verify sexual activity. Maybe the location was symbolic, maybe it was self-preservation. Why’d you take the gun with you when you went to meet her? Doesn’t seem like the usual thing to take to a date. Had you planned it? Had you decided to end it once and for all?”

Hallen’s eyes darted left and right. His breathing grew hard and fast.

“My client does not acknowledge ownership of the weapon in question.”

“Your client’s scum.”

The lawyer puffed up. “Lieutenant Shaw, you’re speaking of a United States Senator.”

“That makes him elected scum. It shocked you, didn’t it, senator? All the blood, the impact of the bullet, the way the gun jerked in your hand. Maybe you hadn’t really believed you could go through with it. Not when push came to shove and you had to pull the trigger. But once you had, there was no going back. You had to cover it up. She would have ruined you, she never would have let you have peace. She wasn’t like Catherine. Claire wouldn’t fade into the background and suffer all the shame and the guilt and the fear in silence. She used it against you, so you had to kill her. Then you had to cover your tracks.”

“Lieutenant Shaw—”

She ignored the lawyer’s warning and kept beating at Hallen verbally, never shifting her eyes from his. “That was exciting, wasn’t it? You could get away with it. You’re a United States senator, the victim’s grandfather. Who would believe it of you? So you arranged her on the bed, made a show of it, boosted your ego. You could do it again, and why not? The killing had stirred something in you. What better way to hide than to make it seem as if there was some maniac at large?”

She waited while Hallen reached for a glass of water and drank thirstily. “Yeah, there was a maniac at large—you. You printed the note and slipped it under her. Then you got dressed, feeling calmer, but still excited. You set the link to call the cops at 2:55. You needed enough time to go down and fix the security footage. Then you got back on your shuttle, flew back to East Washington, and waited to play the outraged grandfather.”

Through it all, Hallen said nothing. But a muscle jerked in his cheek and his eyes flicked around the room nervously. 

“That’s a fascinating story, lieutenant,” the lawyer said. “But it remains that—a story. A supposition. A desperate attempt by the police department to extricate themselves from an embarrassing situation where the media and the people of New York are demanding that the killer be stopped. Of course, it’s perfect timing that such a ridiculous and damaging accusation should be levied against the senator just as his Morals Bill is coming up for debate.”

Shaw simply acted as if she hadn’t heard anything. “How did you pick the other two? How did you select Lola Starr and Georgie Castle? Have you already picked the fourth, the fifth, the sixth? Do you think you could have stopped there? Could you have stopped when it made you feel so powerful, so invincible, so righteous?”

Hallen wasn’t red now. He was now a sickly gray and his breathing was harsh and choppy. When he reached for a glass again, his hand jerked and sent it rolling to the floor.

“This interview is over.” The lawyer stood and helped Hallen to his feet. “My client’s health is precarious. He requires medical attention immediately.”

“Your client’s a murderer. He’ll get plenty of medical attention in a penal colony, for the rest of his life.” She pressed a button. When the doors of the interrogation room opened, a uniform stepped in. “Call the medtechs,” she ordered. “The senator’s feeling a in a bad way. It’s going to get worse,” she warned, turning back to Hallen. “I’ve barely started, senator.”

* * *

Two hours later, after filing reports and meeting with the prosecuting attorney, Shaw was in her vehicle, fighting her way through traffic. She had read through a good portion of Claire Hallen’s diaries. She needed to set it aside for now, the narrative of a twisted man and how he had turned a young girl and then the woman into someone almost as unbalanced as he was.

She knew it could have been her story, all too easily, or something like it. You made your choices when you dealt with shit like that. Sometimes the choices were imposed on you, or by factors you had no conscious awareness of. In the end, Claire’s choices had not saved her from her abuser or the control he had over her life. Or its ending.

Shaw had decided she needed to blow off some steam. Maybe go over the timeline with someone who would listen and provide a useful perspective. Someone who, for a little while, would keep her from brooding on what her life had been in the past. On what it might be now, if she hadn’t been able to—what had Root said?— _remake_ herself. On what might have been if she hadn’t needed to remake herself at all.

Wallowing in that kind of speculation was useless. Much better to use that energy on something it might benefit, like this case. Shaw was still not completely satisfied with the timeline she and Finch had assembled. She wanted to immerse her mind in it some more; get some clarity on some of the remaining gray areas.

 _Who_ she’d wanted to immerse herself in the case with, and get that perspective from, had required zero thought—she’d headed straight for Root’s.

When a call came through on her link while she was manoeuvring around a stupidass double-parked delivery vehicle, she prayed it wasn’t a summons back to duty. “Shaw.”

“Hello, Shaw.” Finch’s tired face appeared on the display. “I just watched the interrogation vid. Good job.”

“Didn’t get as far as I’d like, fencing with the damn lawyer. I’m going to break him, Finch. I swear it.”

“I have full confidence that you will. However, I have some bad news for you. Hallen’s heart has been causing him some problems.”

“Christ, he’s not going to code out on us?”

“Oh no, they’ve medicated him. There’s some talk about getting him a new one next week.”

“Good.” She blew out a long breath. “I want him to live a long time—behind bars.”

“We’ve got a strong case and the prosecutor has been praising you highly. In the meantime, though, Hallen’s been released.”

She hit the brakes. A chorus of irate horn blasts from behind had her abruptly pulling over on the edge of Tenth and blocking the turning lane. “What the hell do you mean, he’s been released?”

Finch grimaced in empathy. “Released on his own recognizance. A noble U.S. senator, a lifetime of patriotic duty, salt of the earth, bad heart—and a judge in his pocket.”

“Fuck that.” She drove the knuckles of both fists into her forehead until the pain equaled her frustration. “We’ve got him on murder, three counts. Prosecutor said she was going for no bail.”

“She got shot down. Hallen’s lawyer made a a very stirring speech that would have wrung tears from a stone. Hallen will be back in East Washington by now, under doctor’s orders to rest. He got a thirty-six hour hold on further interrogation.”

“Shit.” She punched the wheel with the heel of her hand. “It’s not going to make any difference,” she said grimly. “He can play the ailing elder statesman, he can do a tap dance at the fucking Lincoln Memorial, I’ve got him.”

“The commander’s worried that the delay will give Hallen an opportunity to assemble his resources. He wants you back working with the prosecutor, going over everything we’ve got. 0800 tomorrow.”

“I’ll be there. Finch, I’m not going to let him escape from the cage we’ve got ready for him.”

“We just need to be sure we get this whole thing wrapped up as tightly as we can, Shaw. See you at eight.”

“Yeah.” She was still steaming when she swung back into the traffic. She considered going home and burying herself in a review of the entire chain of evidence. But she was five minutes from Root’s. Shaw opted to use her as a sounding board.

She could count on Root to play devil’s advocate and to point out any flaws in the chain. And—she had to admit—she could count on her calm influence to help Shaw maintain her analytical focus without all the violent emotions boiling over.

She couldn’t afford those emotions, couldn’t afford to let Catherine’s humiliated, devastated face get into her head, as it had time and time again since their interview. She could _not_ afford the burning, volcanic anger that was fanned by the remains of the old shame and despair way down deep. Not if she was going to put this bastard away.

It was impossibly hard to separate the case from that anger. She knew she wanted Hallen to pay almost as much for Catherine as for the three dead women. For what someone very much like him had done to her. And for what people like him and her amu had done to millions of vulnerable people everywhere and always.

She was cleared through Root’s gate and drove up to park in front of the main entrance. Her pulse kicked up a little as she jogged up the steps. _Dumbass. Acting like some hormonal teenager._ Still, her anticipation rose when Hersh opened the door.

“I need to see Root,” she said with no ceremony, brushing by him.

“I’m sorry, lieutenant. She isn’t at home.”

“Oh.” Now she really did feel like a dumbass. “Where is she?”

Hersh’s blank face somehow became even more blank. “I believe she’s at the office, in a meeting. She was forced to cancel an important trip to Europe and therefore is required to work late.”

“Right.” Bear emerged from somewhere in the depths of the house and immediately bounded over to Shaw with his tongue lolling and tail wagging. She gave him a good ruffle on his scruff and rubbed the sides of his chest. “When do you expect her?”

“Root’s time is her own business, lieutenant. I don’t monitor it without specific instruction.”

“Look, pal, it’s not like I’ve been twisting Root’s arm to make her spend her so-valuable time with me. So why don’t you pull the stick out of your ass and tell me why you give me this bullshit attitude whenever I show up.”

Hersh’s face turned bright red. “I am not comfortable with your aggressive attitude, Lieutenant Shaw.”

“Yeah, that’s how I am.”

“Obviously so.” Hersh drew himself up to his full imposing height, looming over her. “Let me tell you something about Root. She had to crawl from the gutter to make the life she has now. She escaped from circumstances and people that tried time and again to exploit her, to drag her back down. Only a couple of people in her previous life ever gave her any support at all."

He paused, looking down at her with a stony expression in his beady little eyes. “And here you are again, no doubt wanting something from her. A _police officer_.” His voice was was full of contempt. “There were no cops to the rescue when she tried to make her way out of that life. Mostly the opposite—corrupt power-drunk bullies that only wanted to lock her up or kick her straight back down for the slightest misdemeanor. No second chances, no help.”

Shaw glared back at him. “Yeah, I know the gutter. I’m from there, too. Maybe it shows—maybe my work keeps me there.” Shaw would've laughed if Hersh’s rant hadn’t echoed some of the thoughts she’d had herself. “Root can figure out for herself whether I’m going to drag or kick her back down. Tell her I took the dog.” She snapped her fingers at Bear for him to follow, turned, and walked out.

* * *

It helped to tell herself Hersh was an insufferable asshole as she drove home. At least Bear was there to listen to her grumbles about Root’s taste in staff. He was a good listener. Although not so good at offering any insights.

She’d put herself right into that situation. She’d wanted to see Root, just _because_. Not just for sex. Shaw felt something for her, it was true. Something new, uncomfortable, hard to ignore. Things had been going fast, very fast. Yet somehow she was still on this ride, despite her doubts. Shaw had just about given up on trying to figure out _why_.

Staying on the ride for now didn’t mean she was changing her entire life. There was no reason to get all hyped about something that would work for a while, or not. It didn’t matter which. Shaw was fine with that, fine with being around Root while the going was good.

Root been damned useful with the case. Shaw wished to hell that she had been home, had been there to offer her insights into Shaw's current puzzle. But that was the problem with getting used to someone else’s contribution. You feel a gap, an empty space, when they aren’t there.

She pulled into her garage, parked, and saw the yellow light blipping on the wall of her spot. It was a warning that payment on her space was overdue. If it went red, the barricade would engage and she’d be screwed. She cursed a little, more from habit than heat. She hadn’t had time to pay the bills, damn it, and realized she was now facing an evening of playing the credit juggle with her bank account. At least it would give her time to get some laundry done as well.

Distracted by thoughts about her credit and the list of chores she’d mentally assembled, Shaw didn’t consciously notice Bear’s ears prick up when they reached her apartment and she unlocked the door. He barked and sprang past her as soon as the door swung open. There was a crackling sound before Bear got two steps inside, and his entire body stiffened. He crashed into a side table, breaking it, then hit the ground, unmoving.

Shaw instantly ceased her charge into the room and halted just behind Bear’s still body. She slowly turned her head until she saw Bannerman standing against the wall beside the door, invisible from the entrance. Without shifting her position so much as a millimeter, she took her hand off the weapon inside her coat. She deliberately raised both hands to shoulder level, while he lowered the stunner he held in his left hand. In his other hand, a large, shiny gun remained pointed at her unwaveringly. She recognized this one. A Colt .45. The kind that supposedly tamed the old American West, six bullets at a time.

“This isn’t going to help your boss’s case, Bannerman.”

“I disagree.” He stepped from behind the door, kicked it shut, and moved into her direct line of vision, all the while keeping the gun firmly trained on her heart. “Take your weapon out slowly, lieutenant, and drop it.”

She kept her eyes on his. Her EM was fast, but it wouldn’t be faster than a cocked .45. At this range, the hole it'd put in her would make a nasty mess of her vital organs. She removed her weapon from its holster with two fingers and dropped it to the floor.

“Kick it toward me."

She did as he ordered, cursing internally. He picked the weapon up, his gun aim unwavering, and slipped it into a pocket with the stunner.

“It’s fortunate I had a non-lethal option with me in case you resisted. I didn’t think of you as the pet-owning type until I saw the dog bowl in the kitchen. Very sweet. Keep your hands where I can see them. Turn around, into the bedroom.” She scowled, but he gestured minutely with the gun. “Do it.”

He followed close behind, although not close enough, until they reached the bedroom and he gestured her further inside.

He smiled pleasantly as she turned to face him. “Coat off. The external recorder is distracting—I prefer to keep this between you and me.” As he spoke, he closed the bedroom door behind him without looking at it, the gun steady on her. 

“Some people might think your loyalty to the senator admirable, Bannerman. I think it’s stupid. Lying to give him an alibi is one thing. Threatening a police officer is another.”

“You’re a remarkably bright woman, lieutenant. Still, you make remarkably foolish mistakes. Loyalty isn’t an issue here. Coat, now.”

She kept her moves slow and her eyes on his. When the coat was off one shoulder, she pinched her link in its pocket between two fingers and activated recording mode. She turned slightly to place the coat on the chair by the wall and managed to slide the link out onto the floor, where it was hidden by the drape of the thick wool fabric. She faced him fully again, hands out to each side. “If holding me at gunpoint isn’t due to loyalty to Senator Hallen, Bannerman, what is it?”

“It’s a matter of self-preservation and great personal satisfaction. I’d hoped for the opportunity to kill you, lieutenant, but didn’t see clearly how to work it into the plan.”

“What plan is that?”

“Why don’t you sit down? The side of the bed. Take off your shoes and we’ll chat.”

“My shoes?”

“Yes, please. This gives me my first, and I’m sure, the only opportunity to discuss what I’ve been able to accomplish. Your shoes?”

She sat, choosing the side of the bed nearest her link. “You’ve been working with Hallen through it all, haven’t you?”

“You wanted to ruin him. He could have been president, and eventually the Chair of the World Federation of Nations. The tide’s swinging, and he could have swept it along and sat in the Oval Office. Beyond.”

“With you at his side.”

“Of course. And with me at his side, we would have taken the country, then the world, in a new direction. The right direction. One of strong morals, strong defense.”

She took her time with her boots, letting one drop before loosening the other. “Defense—like your old pals in SafeNet?”

His smile was hard, his eyes bright. “This country has been run by diplomats for too long. Our generals discuss and negotiate rather than command. With my help, Hallen would have changed that. But you were determined to bring him down, and me with him. There’s no chance for the presidency now.”

“He’s a murderer, a child abuser—”

“A statesman,” Bannerman interrupted. “You’ll never bring him to trial.”

“He’ll be brought to trial, and he’ll be convicted. Killing me won’t stop it.”

“No, but it will destroy your case against him—posthumously on both parts. You see, when I left him less than two hours ago, Senator Hallen was in his office in East Washington. I stood by him as he chose a .457 Magnum, a very powerful gun. And I watched as he used it to die like a patriot.”

“Christ.”

“The warrior falling on his sword.” Admiration shone in Bannerman’s voice. “I told him it was the only way, and he agreed. He would never have been able to tolerate the humiliation. When his body is found and when yours is found, the senator’s reputation will be intact once again. It will be proven that he was dead hours before you. He couldn’t have killed you, and as the method will be exactly as the other murders, and as there will be two more, as promised, the evidence against him will cease to matter. He’ll be mourned. I’ll lead the charge of fury and insult—and step into his bloody shoes.”

“This isn’t about politics, you sick asshole.” She jumped up as if to continue her threats, and braced for the blow. She was relieved he didn’t use the gun but instead used the back of his fist to knock her back hard. She turned with the blow and stumbled a meter or so from him, fell heavily against the night table, and then to the floor. The glass she’d left on the table shattered beside her, a shard bouncing up to cut her cheek. She was only thankful that it didn’t get an eye.

“Get up.”

Shaw groaned as she made a show of struggling to get up. It wasn't entirely fake; the flash of pain from the cut had her cheek singing and her vision blurred. She braced a hand on the chair, as if needing its support to rise. With her other hand beneath the obscuring coat, she was able to set her link to messaging mode. She could only hope that her last contact remained who it should be.

She leaned heavily on the chair and stood, wavering a little as she straightened up. There was a metallic taste of blood in her mouth from Bannerman’s fist. Blood also flowed from the cut on her cheek; she could feel its slow drip from her jaw.

“What good is it going to do to kill me, Bannerman?”

“It will do _me_ a great deal of good. You' re the spearhead of the investigation. You’re sexually involved with a former suspect. Because of that, your reputation and motives will come under close scrutiny after your death. It will only serve to confirm that it's a mistake to give a woman authority.”

She wiped the blood from her mouth. “You don’t like women, do you?”

“They have their uses, but underneath it all, they’re whores. Perhaps you didn’t sell your body to Root, but she bought you. She’s even worse, with her decadent lifestyle, her excess, and her _business_." He practically spit out the last word. "You are sworn to uphold the law, to do what’s right, but you whored yourself to a even greater whore. Your murder won’t really break the pattern I’ve established.”

“That _you’ve_ established?”

“Did you really believe the senator was capable of planning and executing such a meticulous series of murders?” Bannerman paused until he saw that she understood. “Yes, he killed Claire. An impulse. I wasn’t even aware he was considering it. He panicked afterward.”

“You were there. You were with him the night he killed Claire.” Inside, Shaw was _furious_ with herself for failing to identify that scenario, but she kept it locked as he continued to speak.

“I was waiting for him in his vehicle. I always accompanied him on his trysts with her. I drove him so that only I, who he trusted, would be involved.”

“His own granddaughter. Didn’t it disgust you?”

“She disgusted me, lieutenant. She used his weakness. Every man’s entitled to one, but she used it, exploited it, then threatened him. After she was dead, I realized it was for the best. She might have waited until he was president, then twisted the knife.”

“So you helped him cover it up.”

“Of course.” Bannerman lifted his shoulders. “I’m glad we have this opportunity to talk. I was frustrated by not being able to take credit for my work. I’m delighted to share it with you.”

 _Ego. Not just intelligence, but ego and arrogance._ Doctor Carter’s words were embedded in her brain. “You had to think fast,” she said. “And you did. Fast and effectively.”

“Yes.” His smile spread. “He called me down in the vehicle and told me to come up quickly. He was half mad with fear. If I hadn’t calmed him, she might have succeeded in ruining him.”

“You’d blame her?”

“She was a whore. A dead whore.” He shrugged it off, the gun remaining steady in his grip. “I gave Hallen a sedative and cleaned up the mess. As I explained to him, it was necessary to make Claire part of a larger whole. To use her failings, her vile profession, to misdirect the investigation. It was a simple matter to doctor the security footage. The senator’s penchant for recording his sexual activities gave me the idea to use that as part of the pattern.”

“Yes,” she said, her face neutral. “Good thought, establishing a through-line, a specific M-O.”

“I wiped the place down and wiped the gun. Since he’d been sensible enough not to use one that was registered, I left it behind. Again, establishing pattern.”

“So you used it, this unplanned event,” Shaw said. “Used him and used Claire.”

“Only fools waste opportunities. He was more himself once we were away,” Bannerman continued. “I told him the rest of my plan, to use Simmons to pressure the investigation team and leak intelligence. It was unfortunate that the senator didn’t remember until later to tell me about Claire’s diaries. I had to risk going back. But, as we know now, she was clever enough to hide them well.”

“You killed Lola Starr and Georgie Castle. You killed them to cover up the first murder.”

“Yes. But unlike the senator, I enjoyed it. From beginning to end. It was a simple matter to select them, to choose names and locations.”

It was a little difficult at the moment for Shaw to take any satisfaction in knowing that she’d been right. The analysis and even Carter had been wrong: there were two killers after all. “You didn’t know the other vics?”

“Did you think I should?” He laughed. “Who they were hardly mattered. Only what. Whores offend me. Women who have no moral fiber offend me. You offend me, lieutenant.”

“Why the vids?” _Where the hell was Finch? Why wasn’t a roving unit breaking down her door right now?_ “Why did you send the vids to me? To only me.”

“I enjoyed watching you scramble around like a rat in a maze—an uppity, pseudo-man under the delusion she could think and analyze like a real investigator. I showed you how these whores brought their own deaths on themselves, focused your attention. Then I set out the bait and pointed you at Root, but you let her talk you onto your back. All too typical, all too disappointing. You let your emotions get to you, lieutenant—over the deaths, over that little girl killed right under your nose. Fucking that rich slut when you should have been concentrating on your work. On _my_ work. But you got lucky. So that's why you’re about to get very unlucky.”

He sidestepped to the dresser where he had a camera waiting and touched it on. “Take off your clothes,” he said, with an edge of excitement under his surface calm. 

“You can kill me,” she ground out, as she felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. “But you’re not doing any of that shit to me.”

“You’ll do exactly what I want you to. They always do.” He lowered the gun until it pointed at her midsection. “With the others, it was a shot to the head first. Instant death, probably painless. Do you have any idea what kind of pain you’ll experience with a .45 slug in your gut? You’ll be begging me to kill you.” His eyes lit up in anticipation. “Strip.”

Shaw’s hands dropped to her sides. She’d face the pain, but not the nightmare. With action now inevitable, her senses came into sharp focus: mind crystal-clear, reflexes razor-sharp. Her body, all of her, was poised in perfect balance as she awaited Bannerman’s next move.

Neither of them heard Bear shake himself in the main room as he recovered from the stun, nor the sound of him running at top speed toward the bedroom.

“Your choice, lieutenant,” Bannerman said. He jumped when Bear suddenly slammed hard against the door right behind him, shaking it in the frame. The dog growled and barked loudly as his claws scrabbled frantically against the other side.

Before Bannerman could recover from his momentary surprise, Shaw sprang forward fast, her head low. She grabbed both his forearms and dug her thumbs into the tendons just below his elbow joints. She mashed them into the bone to force his fingers to loosen, while using her momentum to bulldoze him back against the door. She focused on brutally grinding her thumb into his right-hand tendon as she banged the back of his bent elbow—once, twice—against the doorframe. She grinned fiercely at the sudden loud clatter of the gun hitting the floor.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final denouement! Go team!
> 
> Also, many, many, many thanks to @[SloanGreyMercyDeath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SloanGreyMercyDeath), who really did sterling work for most of this fic and kept me on track. I can't express my gratitude enough, since this would not be here, or as good as it is, without their fabulous input.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW abusive language and threats. 
> 
> Also, CW legal drug use. Shaw's a bit out of it, but that's to be somewhat expected in the circumstances. She's not incapable, though, or in a position where her consent is in question.

Finch stopped into his office before heading home for the evening. His usual routine was to make sure nothing was unsecured on people’s desks, including his own, and all the system statuses were green and healthy.

He was making his way through the maze of squad consoles toward the elevators when he stopped and frowned at the alert on his link. It was unusual for Shaw to call him directly, unless it was an urgent matter—she typically kept their comms to terse text chats.

Naturally, he took the incoming call. “This is somewhat out of the ordinary, Shaw, what—” 

He stopped and looked hard at the display. It was Shaw’s voice, all right, but she was not greeting him. Her complete flatness of tone as she continued to speak signalled her tension. Finch realised instantly that it wasn’t a pocket-dial and listened hard.

“ _What good is it going to do to kill me, Bannerman?_ ”

“Oh, my.”

He could see nothing on the display; neither Shaw nor Bannerman were visible, but the audio was clear. Finch was already praying they would be in time as he called Dispatch.

* * *

Shaw was well aware that Bannerman had her in height and he had her in weight. He’d shaken off her bodyslam and her fingers digging into his forearms all too fast, demonstrating categorically that he was military-trained.

She fought ferociously, unscrupulously; she knew she had to rely on her agility and quick-thinking to have any hope of staying ahead in this lethal contest.

His short blow to the ribs stole her breath. She knew she was going down, and she made sure she took him with her. They hit the floor hard, and although she rolled, he ended up on top of her. Light burst behind her eyes when her head rapped hard against the floor.

His hand was around her throat, bruising her esophagus. She went for his eyes, missed, and raked her nails down his cheek, leaving furrows behind that had him howling like an animal. If he’d used his other fist for a blow to the face, he might have stunned her, but he was too focused on reaching for the gun. Her stiff-handed chop to his bruised elbow had his hand shaking from her throat. Painfully gasping in air, she scrambled with him for the gun.

His hand closed over it first.

* * *

Root shifted the bag under her arm as she walked into the lobby of Shaw’s building. She was _so_ pleased that Shaw had come to see her without being asked. It was a habit she intended to encourage her to continue, as frequently as possible. Hersh had been almost shifty about whatever had happened during Shaw’s visit, but Root would get it out of him in person later. Right now, finding out what Shaw wanted took precedence.

Root had ridden her bike from her office building to Shaw's residence and brought a spare helmet with her—she hoped to convince her to come on a ride. Maybe on more than one kind of ride, if they found somewhere to stop with a nice outlook and some privacy. Root had no doubt she’d find somewhere suitable.

She messaged Shaw again—still no answer—and decided to buzz the intercom. She was smiling at the vision of Shaw behind her on the bike, hanging onto her leathers, maybe getting Shaw her own leathers for future rides, and stripping her out of them somewhere scenic, when suddenly all hell broke loose behind her.

“Get out of the way!” Finch came in with all the speed his uneven gait could muster, a half-dozen uniforms following close behind, and they made a beeline for the elevator. “Police business!”

“ _Shaw_.” Root felt the blood drain from her face even as she forced her way onto the elevator with them.

Finch ignored her and snapped into his link, “Secure all exits. Get those sharpshooters in position.”

Root clenched a hand uselessly at her side. “Hallen?”

“Bannerman,” Finch corrected, panting. “He’s got her. Stay out of the way, Root.”

“I will not.” Her eyes met his with fierce determination.

Finch gave her measuring look as he weighed the options. There was no way right now that he was going to spare a couple of cops to restrain a civilian. He also had the strong impression that this particular civilian would go right to the wall, as he would, for Shaw.

He nodded in acknowledgment. “Then do as I tell you.”

They heard the gunshot just as the elevator doors opened. Bear’s frantic barking as the echo died away was clearly audible as they piled out into the hallway.

Root was two steps ahead of Finch and yelled, “Wait!” when he beckoned for one of the burly cops to charge with the door ram. She launched herself down the hallway ahead of the cop squad, barely slowing when she reached Shaw’s apartment.

Her boots skidded on the floor’s slick surface from her momentum as she yanked her master from her bag, and she collided hard with the apartment door. Disregarding the bruising pain and Finch’s goggling face when he caught up, she got the locks open in less than a second. She threw the door open and barrelled in with no thought for what lay behind it.

* * *

The pain from the bullet was like being gashed by a spear of dry ice. Then Shaw’s awareness of it was gone, swamped by fury.

She clamped her fingers around the pinkie of Bannerman’s gun hand, trying to bend it back into a lock. His excited face was close to hers, his body pinning her. His entire hand was slippery with the blood that dripped from his face wound. She swore as she lost her grip on his pinkie and he began to smile.

“You fight like a pathetic girl.” He shook his hair back from his eyes, and the blood from his torn cheek welled red. “I’m going to fuck you like the whore you are. That’s the last thing you’ll know or feel before I kill you. Then I’ll hunt down that other perverted whore you’ve been screwing. I’m going to tell her that I gave her little girlfriend one last real fuck before I put her down like the filthy animal she was.” 

Bannerman's face was suffused with excitement at his plans. “I’ll take my time using each of those fine guns she hoards to shoot body parts off her, one by one. Then I’m going to fuck what’s left until she bleeds out on the floor. And that’s the last thing your bitch-whore is going to know and feel, too.”

He was obviously pumped by his little pep talk to himself. His eyes glistened as he shifted slightly and ripped open her shirt with one hand.

Shaw barked out a laugh right into his exultant face. “You say the sweetest things,” she scoffed, smiling up at him. 

He hesitated for a split second as he tried to parse her response. His waning grin was completely obliterated when she pumped her fist into his mouth. Blood splattered over her like warm rain. She immediately snapped her head forward into his face, hearing/feeling the crunch of cartilage beneath her headbutt as more blood spurted from his nose. Quick as lightning, she scissored up. She jabbed at him with her other fist, threw an elbow to the jaw, and drove her knuckles into his eye, the combo too fast for him to counter.

She didn’t hear the crash of Root’s collision with the apartment door, her throwing the door open, or the pounding of boots toward the bedroom. With rage boosting her strength, Shaw shoved a dazed Bannerman on his back, straddled him, and continued to smash her fists into his face. She made no attempt at finesse or to gain control. She just wanted to _hurt_ , to _obliterate_.

The bedroom door flew open with a bang. Bear ran in, growling, with Root and Finch just behind him. The dog immediately raced over and grabbed one of Bannerman’s arms. Bannerman screamed and flailed, but Shaw barely paused with her fists.

“Shaw!” exclaimed Finch. He hobbled over to pull Bear away by his collar before he could latch on properly, and grabbed at her shoulder with his other hand. “Stop now—he needs to be intact to go to trial!”

She shook him off, snarling. She continued to punch Bannerman, until Root, with a tiny smile on her face, grabbed Shaw’s fist as it cocked for another blow, and zapped Bannerman with the small device that had appeared in her other hand. His body jerked and then slumped to the floor, completely still.

Root said, very calmly: “Shaw. You’re damaging yourself for this piece of shit. He’s not resisting any more—is he under arrest?”

The word _arrest_ penetrated Shaw’s brain and she hesitated, sucking in air.

“No. He was going to kill me. He killed Lola and Georgie. He was going to kill me, but he was going to rape me first.” She pulled back and swiped at the blood and sweat on her face, then wiped her hand on a clean patch of Bannerman’s shirt. “That’s where he made a mistake.”

“Root, what have you done to him? Is that an approved civilian device?” asked Finch in a shocked tone.

Root gave a small sigh as she took Shaw gently by the arm to ease her onto the bed. “I didn’t give it much juice—he’ll be out for just a couple of minutes.”

“But he was no longer resisting—he was already practically unconscious.”

“Oh well,” Root said, without the slightest hint of remorse. “He’s going to have a bit more of a headache when he wakes up.”

Her hands were covered with blood once Shaw was seated. “You’re hurt, Shaw.”

“Not yet. It’ll start in a minute.” Shaw dragged in a breath and let it out. Her pulse rate was starting to slow. She was a cop, dammit. She was a cop, and she’d act like one. “You got the audio stream,” she said to Finch.

“Yes.” He took out a handkerchief to wipe his clammy face.

“Then what the hell took you so long?” She managed a ghost of a smile. “You look a little flustered, Finch.”

“Better late than never.” He spoke into his link: “Situation under control. Exterior squad, stand down. We need a bus.”

“I’m not going to any health center.”

“Not for you, Shaw. For him.” He glanced down at Bannerman, who stirred and let out a weak groan.

“Once you clean him up, make sure you book him for the murders of Lola Starr and Georgie Castle.”

“You sure about that?”

Her legs were a bit wobbly, but she rose and picked up her coat, stopped her link recording, and handed it to him for the chain-of-evidence dump. “Got it all. It’ll be in the recording stream. Hallen did Claire, but our boy here is accessory after the fact to that murder as well. You can add battery, attempted sexual assault and attempted murder of a police officer. Toss in B and E for the hell of it.”

“Naturally." He looked at her and pursed his lips. "Shaw, you’re not looking too good either. In fact, you’re a bit of a mess.”

“I guess I am. Get him out of here, will you, Finch?”

“Of course.”

He bent over and cuffed Bannerman, who barely moved, and turned his head to the cops hovering in the doorway. “Perhaps a couple of you officers ought to carry him out. Hold the ambulance for me. I’ll ride with him.”

He took out an evidence bag and slipped the gun into it. “Expensive-looking item. That's most likely a genuine ivory handle. In excellent condition, too—this weapon would certainly have a powerful impact.”

“Tell me about it.” Shaw's hand went reflexively to her arm and she sat down on the bed again.

Finch stopped examining the gun and stared at her. “My goodness, Shaw, are you shot?”

“I don’t know.” She said it almost dreamily, and was surprised when Root ripped the sleeve off her already tattered shirt. “Hey.”

“Grazed her.” Root’s voice was short. She ripped the sleeve again and used it to put pressure on the wound. “She needs to be looked at.”

“I’ll leave that to you,” Finch said, poker-faced. “You might want to stay somewhere else tonight, Shaw. Let a team come in and clean this up for you.”

“Yeah.” She smiled as the dog leaped onto the bed and stuck his face into hers, panting. “Maybe.”

Finch made a _tsking_ sound. “It’s been a busy day.”

“It comes and goes,” she murmured, stroking Bear and briefly nuzzling the less-injured side of her face into the fur on his neck.

“See you when you’re back on shift, Shaw.”

“Yeah. Thanks for the assist, Finch.”

He nodded back at her as he exited.

Shaking her head at Finch’s offhand manner, and determined to get through to Shaw, Root crouched in front of her. “You’re in shock, sweetie.”

“Yeah, I think so. Pain’s starting to break through now.”

“You need a medtech.”

Shaw moved her shoulders. “I could use a painkiller and I need to clean up.”

She looked down at herself and took inventory. Her shirt was torn and splashed with blood. Her hands were a mess, the knuckles ripped and swollen—she couldn’t quite make a fist with the right one. A hundred bruises were making themselves known now, and the wound on her arm where the bullet had nicked it was turning to fire.

“I don’t think it’s as bad as it looks,” she decided. “But I’d better check.”

Root took her good hand to steady her when she started to rise, and Shaw looked down at their linked hands. She rubbed her thumb briefly over one of Root's black-polished fingernails. “I kind of like when you hold my hand sometimes. Makes me feel all warm. Then I feel really stupid about it after. There’s stuff in the bathroom.”

Root was somewhat stunned by her remark, but she put it to one side—getting Shaw patched up came first. Since she wanted to see the damage for herself, Root escorted her to the bathroom and set her on the closed toilet. She found strong, police-issue painkiller infusers in a nearly empty medicine cabinet. She unwrapped one and offered it, cognizant of the bitching that would ensue if she didn’t act as if Shaw were perfectly able to take care of herself. Limbs missing, guts on the floor, she knew the cop would vehemently object to any implication otherwise. Naturally, Root had no qualms about applying the painkiller to Shaw herself if need be.

Knitting her brows in the most adorable look of concentration that Root had ever seen on anyone’s face, Shaw carefully pressed the infuser into her skin and then discarded it in the waste. She swiped ineffectively with her good arm at the hair stuck to her forehead in a spatter of blood. “I forgot to tell Finch—Hallen is dead. Shot himself.” 

“Don’t worry about it right now.” Root caressed the sticky hair away from Shaw’s face. She took out a wound-cleaning wipe—thankfully there were some in the cabinet—and began on the bullet wound first. It was a nasty gash, but the bleeding had already slowed. Any competent MT could close it in a matter of minutes. She focused on keeping her hands steady as she worked, relieved that the wound wasn’t any worse.

“There were two killers.” Shaw frowned at the far wall. “That was the problem. I thought of it, but then I let it go. Analysis indicated low probability. Stupid.”

Root took a fresh wipe and started on her face. She was grateful to find that most of the congealing blood wasn’t Shaw’s. Her mouth was cut and her left eye was already beginning to swell. There was still blood in the cut just below her cheekbone, but nothing seemed to be broken. Root let out a slow breath. “You’re going to have a few good bruises.”

“I’ve had 'em before.” The medication was definitely kicking in now; the pain was almost imperceptible. Shaw only smiled hazily when Root stripped off her torn shirt, baring her to the waist, and began checking her for other injuries. Root’s fingers gently pressed along her painful ribs, palpating for cracks or breaks, and Shaw’s breath caught a couple of times at particularly tender spots. Root was being very thorough.

“You’ve got great hands. The way you touch me. Fucking amazing moves. Amazing fucking moves.” Shaw snickered at her own wit. Still with the dopey smile, she continued, “I ever tell you that? About your hands?”

“Not exactly.” Root had nearly lost it when she snickered, and sadly, she doubted that Shaw would remember later what she was saying now. She wished with all her might that she was recording this conversation. Partly to savor for herself. Partly so she could play Shaw’s words back to annoy the crap out of her at some suitable time in the future. Multiple times in the future.

“And you’re hot. Not my usual type”—Root finally had to laugh as Shaw rambled on—“but you’re _smoking_. I keep wondering what you’re doing here.”

Root took her hand and wrapped a dressing gently around it. “I’ve asked myself the same thing, Sam.”

Shaw grinned foolishly and let herself float. “And you’re funny. When you’re not being annoying. I need to file my report. Soon, maybe.” Root only hummed reassuringly. “You don’t really think we’re gonna go anywhere with this _thing_ , do you, Root? The kinda-reformed hacker gazillionaire and the low-class sociopathic cop?”

“I guess we’ll find out.” Root smiled back at Shaw, affection overlying her concern. There were plenty of bruises all over Shaw’s body, but the deep purple hue along her ribs worried Root the most. Cracked ribs were no joke.

“Okay. Maybe I could lie down now? Can we go to your place, 'cause Finch’s going to send in a team to record the scene and all that. If I could just take a little nap before I go in to make my report.”

“You’re going to the nearest health center.”

“Nope, nuh-uh. Can’t stand them. Hospitals, health centers, doctors.” Shaw gave her another loopy smile and held out her good hand. “Let me sleep in your bed, please, Root? Please? The great big one, up on the platform under the sky.” 

The way that Shaw looked up at her with huge, pleading eyes and said _please_ nearly killed Root on the spot. She took Shaw’s hand and gently pulled her up. As she did, Shaw stumbled against her, her head lolling against Root’s chest. Lacking anything else close to hand that was still in one piece, Root took off her bike jacket, got Shaw into it, and zipped it up. At least it was warm from her body heat. She discarded the notion of trying to get some boots on Shaw’s feet—her warm socks would do—and got them both moving toward the apartment entrance.

“Don’t forget Bear. Good boy—he saved my life.”

“Of course. Anyone who saves one of your nine lives gets steak for the rest of _their_ life. Hier, Bear.” Root snapped her fingers and the dog fell contentedly into step beside them. Shaw gave him a languid ruffle on his neck as he pressed against her thigh.

“Place is a mess.” Shaw chuckled as Root manoeuvred them around the broken furniture and into the hall. “Landlord’s going to be pissed. But I know how to get around her.” She raised herself on tip-toe—Root nearly died on the spot again—and laid a tooth-scraping kiss on her throat. “It’s good it’s over,” she said, giving a little sigh. “It’s good you’re here. Be nice if you stuck around for a while.”

“Absolutely, Sameen.” Root was glad they had some privacy right now, because there was _no way_ she could have prevented the huge, idiotic, ecstatic grin that leaped onto her face at Shaw’s words.

Once Root was able to get her rapturous thoughts under control, she gently shifted Shaw and bent down to retrieve the bag that she’d dropped in her race to unlock the apartment door. There was a quarter-kilo of coffee inside. She figured she’d need it as a bribe when Shaw woke up and found an MT hovering over her. Maybe Shaw would be in Root’s bed, but she still wanted a professional to check out those injuries.

Getting her into that bed would be interesting. Root’s bike would be fine where it was for now. She decided she’d be able to break into the cop vehicle if Shaw didn’t have the keycodes without her link. It’d be quicker than ordering a share vehicle or getting Hersh to pick them up.

“Don’t wanna dream tonight,” Shaw muttered sleepily.

Root got them both into the elevator and requested the carpark level. Shaw was nearly out on her feet and leaned heavily against Root’s chest. Bear, angled slightly in front, pressed closely against both their legs.

“No, darlin’.” Root kissed the top of Shaw’s head and wrapped her hand gently around her ponytail, holding her close. “No dreams tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said the very end would be a bit tropey, but what can you do? This Shaw's been pretty chatty, comparatively, but she's never going to be making wild confessions at the drop of a hat. And, well, a little cheese on top of these two never goes astray. 
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking with it till the end, everyone, it's been a fun ride! I've really, really appreciated all kudosing and great comments so far. For those of you that have commented so far, you rock. You're part of the reason this got done. If you're reading this in the future, remember it's never too late to comment on what you enjoyed! 
> 
> On a practical note, and especially if you're a downloader, I've done lots and lots of small edits over the past few weeks to get this cleaned up for the final chapter. Also, due to popular demand, I decided my stance on Root's Nerd Glasses being unlikely in the future was stupid, so they're here now. That's the most major alteration, other than Finch getting a demotion. There are a bunch of grammar tweaks I've caught on my way back through, as well as some phraseology tidy-ups. Alas, I can't do as thorough a scrub of the grammar as I'd like, not having the time to look up a bunch of references (I think we've got _most_ of the comma splices, urgh). 
> 
> So I highly recommend redownloading if you've been reading along and want to keep it. Also, if you enjoyed it, please come back here and let me know, thank you!
> 
> Finally, I've got a few little one-shots in this "world" with the team. One's being stubborn and needs a rewrite, while another is pure, long PWP and needs all the body parts sorted out. No promises when, but there's those. As for another novel-length AU, well, who knows. It would be nice to see John...


End file.
